SALT 

•.in  j^^i  Bm  Ww, 

PIERRE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SALT 
LAKE 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 
SPRING,  1933 

WANDERERS 

Knut  Hamsun 
MEN  OF  AFFAIRS 

Roland  Pertoaee 
THE  FAIR  REWARDS 

Thomas   Beer 
I  WALKED  IN  ARDEN 

Jack  Crawford 
GUEST  THE  ONE-EYED 

Gunnar  Gunnarsson 
THE  GARDEN  PARTY 

Katherine  Mansfield 
THE  LONGEST  JOURNEY 

E.  M.  Forster 
THE  SOUL  OF  A  CHILD 

Edwin  Bjorkman 
CYTHEREA 

Joseph  Hergesheimer 
EXPLORERS  OF  THE  DAWN 

Mazo  de  la  Roche 
THE  WHITE  KAMI 

Edward  A  Id  en  Jewell 


SALT    LAKE 

A   NOVEL    BY    PIERRE    BENOIT 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY 

FLORENCE  AND  VICTOR  LLONA 


"Les  truites  qui  y  descendent  quelquefois  par  les 
ruisseaux  meurent  immdiatement." 

J.  REMY  (Voyage  au  pays  des  Mormons.) 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED -A- KNOPF  MCMXXH 


COPYRIGHT.  IMI.  BY  ALBIN  MICHEL 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 

Published.  March,  19B 


HUTU)    IK    THI    HNITED    8TATI8    OT    AMKWOA 


To 
FERNAND  VANDEREM 


1523769 


1 


CHAPTER  I. 


sun  did  not  appear  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  a6th  of  June,  1858,  until 
a  little  before  seven  o'clock.  Va- 
porous clouds  of  heat  had  veiled  it  at  its  rise. 
When  it  was  free,  yellow  and  radiant,  Father 
d'Exiles  had  just  concluded  the  celebration  of 
the  Holy  Sacrifice. 

Calmly,  he  locked  up  the  holy  vessels  and 
the  priestly  robes  of  the  ceremony  in  his  shab- 
by canvas  missionary  valise.  Then  he  car- 
ried the  valise  to  a  corner  of  the  veranda, 
which  was  heavily  encumbered  with  packing 
cases,  and  leaned  against  the  balustrade. 

Far  above,  from  the  East  to  the  West,  some 
birds  were  passing.  He  recognized  them: 
curlews,  teals,  black  swans,  grebes. 

For  a  moment  he  remained  motionless ;  then 
he  consulted  his  watch. 

"Coriolan,"  he  said  to  the  negro  servant 
who  was  playing  ball  against  the  adobe  walls 

9 


io  SALT   LAKE 

of  the  veranda,  "go  tell  your  mistress  that  it  is 
time." 

The  negro  returned  shortly. 

"Missus  is  not  ready,"  he  said  with  a  lisp, 
"but  she  wants  to  see  the  abbe." 

The  Jesuit  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
mounted  the  stair-case  and,  after  knocking, 
entered  the  room  of  Annabel  Lee. 

Prolonged  by  a  terrace  on  the  roof  of  the 
ground-floor  porch,  the  room  was  very  large. 
The  charming  pieces  of  furniture  which  until 
a  week  before  had  decorated  it,  had  now  dis- 
appeared. In  their  place,  five  or  six  enor- 
mous trunks,  and  melancholy  disorder, — the 
forerunner  of  a  departure.  There  was 
nothing  left,  except  the  immense,  low  bed  with 
lacy  sheets  dragging  on  the  floor,  and  a  bath- 
tub, around  which  bustled  a  coloured  cham- 
bermaid. 

She  squawked  like  a  frightened  parrot 
when  Pere  Philippe  entered.  Annabel 
smiled,  invisible  behind  one  of  those  high 
screens  of  the  beginning  of  the  century,  which 
represents  chateaux,  bridges,  and  blue  and 
brown  landscapes.  The  milky  water  showed 
only  a  vague  suggestion  of  the  contours  of  the 


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beautiful  body  she  was  bathing.  The  blond 
hair  hung  to  the  ground.  One  of  Annabel's 
arms  rested  upon  the  edge  of  the  bath. 

"I  am  late,"  said  the  young  woman. 

Pere  d'Exiles  remained  impassible. 

"You  are  not  exactly  ahead  of  time,"  he 
contented  himself  with  saying. 

He  remained  standing,  his  tall  body  framed 
in  the  doorway. 

"Only  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  said  Annabel. 

"All  the  clocks  are  packed,"  replied  the 
Jesuit.  "So  I  will  enter  into  a  discussion 
with  you  on  that  point.  Here  is  my  watch, 
however:  quarter  after  seven.  Well,  at  least 
ten  times  last  night,  I  repeated  to  you  that  at 
eight  o'clock  the  American  Army  enters  Salt 
Lake  City.  At  present,  if  you  have  changed 
your  mind,  or  if  you  no  longer  care  to  watch 
the  parade,  I  ..." 

"I  shall  be  ready,"  said  Annabel  Lee,  with 
quiet  assurance. 

"Another  thing,"  continued  the  Jesuit;  "it 
is  Saint  Maxence's  day,  the  patron  saint  of 
your  late  husband.  Last  night,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  you  manifested  to  me  the  intention 
of  honouring  his  memory  by  receiving  com- 


12  SALT   LAKE 

munion  this  morning.  For  that  reason,  I  be- 
lieve that  you  even  confessed  to  me.  .  .  . 
Needless  to  say  that  I  only  waited  ten  minutes 
before  commencing  Mass." 

"You  did  well,"  she  said.  "I  awoke  feel- 
ing rather  tired.  But  I'm  much  better  now. 
And  if  you  would  please  .  .  ." 

The  Jesuit  made  a  motion  to  withdraw. 

"No,  don't  bother.  Go  out  on  the  terrace, 
so  that  we  can  talk  while  Rose  is  dressing  me. 
It  will  only  take  about  ten  minutes.  I  am  not 
slow,  you  know." 

Pere  Philippe  obeyed.  Crossing  the  room, 
he  arrived  upon  the  terrace,  walled  in  by 
honeysuckle  and  clematis.  Through  the  leafy 
branches  shaken  by  the  breeze,  the  sun  scat- 
tered the  floor  with  thousands  of  shifting  little 
gold-pieces. 

The  Jesuit  went  to  the  arched  window  con- 
trived in  the  wall  of  green  foliage.  At  his 
feet  was  the  garden  filled  with  acacias,  fruit- 
trees  and  cottonwoods,  whose  white  tufts  wan- 
dered here  and  there  in  the  languid  atmos- 
phere. At  the  end  of  the  garden  was  the 
glancing  blue  of  a  murmuring  brook  hidden 


SALTLAKE  13 

by  verdure.  To  the  right,  far  beyond  the  bil- 
lowy crests  of  oaks  and  poplars,  the  snowy 
heights  of  the  Twins,  the  two  highest  peaks  of 
the  Wahsatch  mountains,  were  tinged  a  pale 
rose.  To  the  left  was  Salt  Lake,  unseen, 
drowned  as  it  was  in  the  fumes  of  its  hot 
springs. 

The  Ogden  road  ran  due  north,  between 
two  stretches  of  desert  country,  calcined  under 
their  briny  covering. 

"It  is  nice,  today,"  came  the  sweet  voice  of 
Annabel  Lee  from  behind. 

"Superb.  If  it  continues  like  this  for  a 
month,  our  journey  to  Saint-Louis  will  be  a 
veritable  pleasure  trip." 

She  said,  shaking  her  head: 

"A  pleasure  trip!" 

"Will  you  be  sad?"  demanded  the  Jesuit 
rather  brusquely. 

"I  have  never  been  unhappy  in  Salt  Lake." 

"You  do  not  remember  your  arrival  here 
very  distinctly.  I,  let  me  tell  you,  can  assure 
you  that  you  did-  not  carry  your  head  very 
high." 

"I  didn't  know  any  one.     I  came  with  ap- 


14  SALT   LAKE 

prehensions.     You  severed  them.     But  really, 
how  could  I  have  hoped  to  encounter  such  a 
friend  as  you  have  been?" 
"So  that  now  .  .  ." 

"So  that  now,  I  am  almost  sorry  to  go." 
"I  do  not  regret  your  going,  no,  I  don't,"  he 
said.     "I  shall  not  be  here  much  longer.     I 
confess  that  I  prefer  not  to  leave  you  behind 


me." 


"I  thank  you,"  she  said  in  her  monotonous 
soft  voice.     "But  I,  who  am  leaving  you,— 
you  cannot  forbid  that  regret  to  me." 

Mechanically,  he  turned  around.  The 
young  woman  was  still  half  dressed.  She  was 
regarding  him  with  a  wistful,  affectionate 
smile. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  murmured. 

"It  is  I  who  beg  your  pardon  for  being  so 
late,"  she  said. 

They  were  both  silent.  Only  the  prattling 
of  the  negress  was  heard. 

"I  am  ready,"  said  Annabel  at  last. 

With  slow  steps  they  descended  the  cool, 
sombre  staircase. 

In  the  garden,  a  horse  neighed. 


SALTLAKE  15 

Coriolan  came  to  meet  them. 

"Missus,"  he  said,  "there  is  a  soldier  here 
sent  by  the  Governor." 

"Bring  him  in." 

Governor  Gumming  reminded  Mrs.  Lee 
that  she  was  invited  to  the  banquet  offered  that 
evening  in  honour  of  General  Johnston,  com- 
mander of  the  Army  of  Occupation,  to  the 
notabilities  of  the  Territory  of  Utah.  He 
took  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  inform  her 
that  the  entry  of  the  Army  into  Salt  Lake 
City  would  not  take  place  until  ten  o'clock, 
through  the  eastern  gate  of  the  city. 

"Will  you  thank  the  Governor,"  said  Anna- 
bel. Pointing  to  the  soldier,  she  ordered: 
"Coriolan,  take  him  to  the  kitchen  and  give 
him  a  glass  of  rum." 

She  turned  to  the  Jesuit. 

"You  see,  one  should  never  hurry." 

"You  are  always  right,"  he  grumbled. 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"In  the  meanwhile,"  she  said,  "let  us  break- 
fast peacefully." 

And,  as  he  interposed  a  gesture  that  was  al- 
most sullen ; 


16  SALT   LAKE 

"Come,  be  amiable.  Perhaps  it  is  the  last 
time  that  we  shall  breakfast  together, — surely 
the  next  to  the  last." 

There  was  nothing  left  in  the  dining-room 
except  the  buffet  of  polished  walnut,  the 
chairs  and  the  table  on  which  were  arranged 
a  jug  of  cream,  a  coffee-pot  and  enameled 
dishes  containing  plums  and  apricots.  Re- 
peatedly, Annabel  Lee  asked  for  various  ar- 
ticles. She  obtained  the  same  response  from 
Rose  each  time: 

"It  is  packed,  Missus!" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  wearied,  "this  poor  house  is 
deserted  already!" 

And  then,  addressing  the  Jesuit: 

"How  ashamed  I  am,  Father,  to  abandon 
you  this  way!" 

"I  leave  Salt  Lake  the  first  day  of  July,"  he 
replied.  "Perhaps  you  imagine  that  there 
will  be  a  feather-bed  and  silverware  waiting 
for  me  under  the  Indian  tents,  in  the  desert  of 
Idaho?" 

"And  you,"  she  said,  "perhaps  you  imagine 
that  you  will  allay  my  regrets  with  remarks  of 
that  sort?" 

They  finished  breakfast  in  silence. 


SALT   LAKE  17 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Annabel  Lee. 

"Half  past  eight." 

"Are  the  horses  ready?" 

"They  were  saddled  before  eight  o'clock." 

"Well  then,  come  away,  if  you  will  and 
we'll  go  to  Salt  Lake.  The  spectacle  must 
be  worth  seeing." 

The  villa  of  Annabel  Lee  was  situated  at 
five  hundred  yards  from  the  town,  to  the 
north  of  the  enclosure  traced  by  Brigham 
Young  around  the  New  Jerusalem.  Salt 
Lake  City  was  deserted.  A  month  ago,  all 
the  Mormons  had  abandoned  it  before  the 
menace  threatened  by  the  advance  of  the 
Federal  army. 

The  priest  and  the  young  woman  rode 
about  the  empty,  wide  streets  bordered  with 
ditches  shaded  by  willow-trees.  The  win- 
dows and  doors  of  the  houses  were  closed,  the 
majority  of  them  boarded  up.  Under  their 
signs  with  the  emblem  of  the  Eye  of  Jehovah 
surmounted  by  a  Phrygian  cap,  the  shop- 
fronts  were  shut. 

They  met  no  one.  The  silence,  in  a  city 
which  but  recently  swarmed  with  activity  and 


i8  SALT   LAKE 

life,  oppressed  them  in  such  a  manner  that 
they  were  afraid  to  communicate  their 
thoughts. 

"Ah!"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  at  last,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

Horsemen  were  coming  towards  them, 
Indians.  There  were  four,  perched  on  aston- 
ishingly thin  little  horses.  They  were  in  full 
war-paint,  hair  black  and  shiny  under  the 
head-dress  of  new  feathers,  faces  striped  with 
yellow  and  scarlet.  They  saluted  the  Jesuit, 
who  spoke  to  them: 

"Is  Sokopitz  here?" 

"Sokopitz  is  here,"  replied  the  Indian  with 
the  most  gorgeous  feathers.  "Thirty  days 
gone-by,  he  left  the  banks  of  the  Humboldt  to 
present  his  respects  to  the  American  General 
and  to  place  the  warriors  of  the  Shoshones  at 
his  disposal  against  the  Mormons." 

"You  will  tell  him  that  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  him  before  he  returns  to  the  West. 
You  know  my  name?" 

The  Indian  made  an  affirmative  gesture. 
He  passed  on,  his  companions  likewise. 

The  Jesuit  watched  them  disappearing  in 


SALTLAKE  19 

the  distance,  then,  shaking  his  head  with  com- 
miseration, he  said  to  the  young  woman : 

"I  do  not  know  what  will  result  from  the 
conflict  which  at  present  separates  the  Amer- 
icans and  the  Mormons.  But  of  this  I  am 
sure,  that  it  is  those  poor  devils  there,  who 
will  meet  the  expense  of  the  reconciliation  and 
pay  for  the  broken  bottles." 

"They  have  put  a  price  on  your  head,"  said 
Annabel,  "and  you  have  not  ceased  defending 
them." 

"It  is  the  Utah  Indians  who  have  put  a 
price  on  my  head,"  said  the  Jesuit,  smiling, 
"and  these  are  Shoshones.  Utah  or  Sho- 
shones,  at  any  rate,  I  make  no  secret  of  it,  it  is 
to  them  that  all  my  sympathy  goes." 

"Hush!"  said  Annabel,  "here  comes  some- 
one who  is  paid  not  to  share  your  opinion  in 
that  respect.  Good  morning,  Doctor  Hurt, 
is  your  health  a  little  better?" 

Doctor  Hurt,  the  Secretary  of  Indian  af- 
fairs in  the  Territory  of  Utah,  was  walking. 
He  bowed  to  the  ground,  then  straightened 
his  short  body  to  kiss  the  hand  extended  to  him 
by  the  beautiful  amazon. 


20  SALT   LAKE 

He  was  a  thin  old  man,  in  a  light-blue  coat 
and  wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles;  heavy 
watch-charms  dangled  on  his  white  waist- 
coat. 

"Well,  well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he, 
"what  do  you  think  of  Salt  Lake  this  morn- 
ing? Is  it  not  the  most  adorable  of  cities?" 

"It  rather  lacks  festivity,"  she  said,  making 
a  face. 

"I  should  hope  so!  The  charm  lies  exactly 
in  that  fact.  Don't  you  feel  the  happiness 
there  is  in  breathing  air  which  is  not  soiled  by 
the  breath  of  a  single  one  of  those  dogs  of 
fanatics?" 

"In  return,  I  have  just  come  across  some  of 
your  wards,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Hurt, 
sneering.  "Good  fellows,  who  come  here 
with  the  best  of  intentions.  Ah!  if  it  con- 
cerned only  me.  .  .  ." 

"If  it  concerned  only  you?" 

"You  know  what  my  ideas  are.  There  are 
two  questions  in  Utah,  the  Indian  question 
and  the  Mormon  question.  I  unleash  the  In- 
dians, who  ask  for  nothing  better,  against  the 
Mormons;  then,  when  everything  is  over,  I 


SALT   LAKE  21 

intervene  in  the  name  of  the  government  at 
Washington,  bearer  of  the  olive-branch.  No 
funds  to  be  sunk.  No  risks.  The  typical 
good  deal!  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  He  repeated: 
"The  typical  good  deal!" 

"It  is  regrettable  that  Governor  Cumming 
does  not  seem  to  share  your  opinion  on  that 
point,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"Governor  Cumming,  Governor  Cumming. 
He  has  only  one  opinion,  Governor  Cumming, 
and  that  is  the  one  contrary  to  the  opinion  of 
General  Johnston.  It  has  always  been  like 
that,  even  in  America,  the  country  neverthe- 
less where  there  is  the  least  difference  between 
civilians  and  the  military.  General  Johnston 
is  against  Brigham  Young.  Therefore  Gov- 
ernor Cumming  is  for  him,  it  isn't  any  deeper 
than  that  .  .  .  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  here  is  the 
Honourable  Sydney.  I  am  your  servant,  Mr. 
Supreme'  Justice,  wholly  your  ;servant,  es- 
pecially if  there  is  a  glass  of  port  into  the  bar- 
gain!" 

The  Supreme  Justice  of  the  Territory  of 
Utah  and  the  Secretary  of  Indian  affairs 
clapped  each  other  joyously  on  the  back.  The 
honourable  Sydney  was  a  big,  thick-set  man, 


22  SALT   LAKE 

smoking  incessantly  an  enormous  clay-pipe, 
who  added  to  the  highest  judiciary  office  of 
Utah  in  the  interests  of  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment, the  more  remunerative  post  of  pro- 
prietor and  manager  of  the  Union  Hotel,  the 
finest  and  best  frequented  in  Salt  Lake  City. 

He  bent  ceremoniously  before  Annabel  and 
shook  the  hand  of  the  priest. 

"You  have  just  left  the  Governor's,  Judge?" 
questioned  Pere  d'Exiles.  "What  is  the 
news?" 

"Nothing,  Monsieur  Pabbe,  nothing  that 
you  would  not  know  already.  Brigham 
Young  is  still  at  Provo  with  Kimball,  Wells, 
the  Twelve  Apostles,  the  bishops,  the  elders, 
• — the  whole  sainted  band  in  a  word.  But 
there  is  complete  accord  between  the  envoys  of 
the  Federal  Government  and  those  possessed 
lunatics,  the  Devil  take  them!" 

"Still  on  the  same  basis?" 

"The  same  basis.  The  Army  enters  Salt 
Lake  in  one  half  hour.  It  files  through  with 
bands  playing.  Meagre  triumph  for  the  Star 
Spangled  Banner.  The  troops  leave  by  the 
south  gate  and  camp  beyond  the  Jordan. 
Formal  orders  to  the  soldiers  forbidding  them 


SALTLAKE  23 

going  into  the  city.  It  will  only  be  accessible 
to  soldiery  bearing  orders.  In  return  for 
which  the  Mormons  condescend  not  to  light  a 
conflagration  and  to  return  to  Salt  Lake.  It 
can  be  considered  a  nice  slap  in  the  face  for 
President  Buchanan  and  the  Democrats." 

And  the  Supreme  Judge  spat  on  the  ground. 

At  that  moment,  they  were  crossed  by  a 
group  of  Indians,  silent  and  haughty. 

"If  they  had  only  listened  to  me!"  said  Dr. 
Hurt.  "A  few  carbines  in  the  hands  of  those 
good  people  and  rum,  rum!  You  know  my 
ideas.  .  .  ." 

"Rum !  It  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  you  don't 
pay  for  it,  Hurt,"  said  Judge  Sydney.  "The 
taxes  are  almost  prohibitive." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  rum  I  am  talking  about 
would  enter  free,"  cried  Hurt. 

They  were  passing  before  a  house,  whose 
door  they  perceived  to  be  open,  between  the 
double  hedge  of  flowering  acacias. 

Annabel  addressed  the  Supreme  Justice. 

"You  were  saying,  Mr.  Sydney,  that  the 
twelve  bishops  were  at  Provo  with  Brigham 
Young.  But  here  is  Rigdon  Pratt's  house. 
It  is  inhabited,  it  seems  to  me." 


24  SALTLAKE 

"Indeed,"  said  the  magistrate  and  hotel- 
keeper.  "Pratt  remained  with  his  family. 
By  an  agreement  between  the  Governor  and 
Brigham,  he  was  appointed  to  bargain  with 
the  quartermasters  for  the  troops'  camp." 

The  young  woman  had  crossed  the  wooden 
bridge  which  spanned  the  ditch.  She  was 
passing  under  the  mimosa  along  the  walk. 
The  lacy  leaves  brushed  her  temples. 

"Sarah!"  she  called. 

No  response. 

"Isn't  Sarah  Pratt  there?"  asked  Annabel, 
returning  to  her  companions. 

"She  is  there,  I  am  certain  of  it,"  said  Dr. 
Hurt.  "When  I  passed  the  house  about  ten 
minutes  ago,  she  was  on  the  threshold  washing 
one  of  her  little  brothers,  the  seventeenth  or 
eighteenth  off-spring  of  that  godly  man 
Rigdon  Pratt." 

"I  would  have  liked  to  have  said  good-bye 
to  her,"  said  Annabel. 

"You  have  always  been  fond, — aheml — very 
fond  of  that  child,"  sneered  Judge  Sydney. 

"I  do  not  deny  it,"  she  replied. 

"Hum!  she  doesn't  return  the  compliment!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


SALTLAKE  25 

"The  truth,  my  lovely  friend.  Sarah  is 
there,  Sarah  hears  you.  Call  her  again. 
Damned  if  she  will  answer,  the  little  pest!" 

"Why  should  Sarah  be  ungrateful?" 

"The  word  has  escaped!  I  didn't  make 
you  say  it.  Sarah  Pratt  has  worn  too  many  of 
your  beautiful  dresses,  lovely  friend.  A 
woman  rarely  forgives  another  that." 

"You  have  an  evil  tongue,  Judge  Sydney. 
Isn't  it  so,  Father?" 

Pere  d'Exiles  answered  nothing. 

They  continued  on  their  way  and  came  out 
upon  Union  Square,  before  the  hotel  of  the 
judge. 

"And  that  glass  of  port?"  entreated  the 
doctor. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  said  the  judge.  "You 
will  stop  a  moment,  won't  you?"  he  asked, 
addressing  the  two  horsemen. 

"No,"  answered  Annabel,  "we  are  going 
to  meet  the  troops." 

"The  loss  is  mine,  lovely  friend.     We  shall 
see  each  other  again,  I  hope,  before  you  go 
away.     When  are  you  leaving  Salt  Lake?" 
"Tomorrow  night." 
"Tomorrow,   or   the   day   after,   or   later. 


26  SALTLAKE 

Remember,  in  any  case,  that  in  the  future  as  in 
the  past,  Judge  Sydney  remains  your  most 
obedient  servant." 

And  with  arms  extended,  he  made  an  im- 
pressive bow. 

"Much  obliged,"  said  the  young  woman 
rather  dryly.  "Mjay  I  remind  you,  however, 
that  this  evening  we  are  invited  to  the  banquet 
offered  to  General  Johnston  and  that  there  you 
will  have  an  opportunity  to  offer  me  your  ser- 
vices for  the  last  time?" 

Doctor  Hurt  had  already  served  himself 
his  port.  Annabel  set  her  horse  at  a  trot 
Pere  d'Exiles  rejoined  her. 

"Odious  old  man,"  said  he. 

"Don't  speak  too  badly  of  him,"  she  mur- 
mured. "He  will  have  proved  very  useful  to 


me." 


"I  know,  I  know.  ...  If  your  library 
were  not  already  packed  up,"  he  continued  as 
the  horses  cleared  the  eastern  boundary  of  the 
town,  "I  would  have  given  myself  the  genuine 
pleasure  of  reading  the  pages  which  the  good 
Tocqueville  consecrates  to  the  integrity  of 
democratic  judges.  How  much,  within  a 
thousand  dollars,  has  that  man  cost  you?" 


SALT   LAKE  27 

"I  haven't  any  idea,"  said  Annabel,  smiling. 
"You  know  quite  well  that  my  accounts  are 
kept  contrary  to  common  sense.  But  I  repeat 
that  he  has  rendered  me  real  service." 

They  left  behind  the  wall  of  the  enclosure. 
To  the  right,  on  the  eastern  road,  at  about  a 
hundred  steps,  there  was  a  sort  of  small  ob- 
servatory, dominating  the  highway  by  two 
yards;  behind,  there  was  a  frame  building, 
a  road-house  where  the  young  Mormons 
came  to  dance  and  play  at  nine-pins.  It 
was  deserted,  since  the  proprietor  had  taken 
refuge  at  Provo  a  month  previous,  with  the 
other  Latter-Day  Saints. 

Annabel  dismounted.  The  Jesuit  secured 
the  two  horses  under  a  shed  and  returned  to 
her,  carrying  a  rudely  made  stool. 

"Sit  down,"  said  he,  after  placing  the  stool 
against  the  rustic  balustrade. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road  there  were  five 
or  six  young  men  seated  on  the  grass,  eating 
sausages  and  drinking  beer. 

"They  are  clerks  from  the  place  of  Living- 
ston and  Kincaid,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Annabel. 


28  SALT   LAKE 

"Past  ten  o'clock." 

"They  are  late." 

"The  American  soldiers  are  never  ahead 
of  time." 

"Let  us  wait,"  she  said,  leaning  her  elbows 
upon  the  balustrade. 

Pere  d'Exiles  sat  a  little  way  back  on  a 
worm-eaten  bench.  To  the  right,  under  the 
murmuring  willows,  the  road  extended,  white, 
remarkably  well-kept.  The  green  dome  of 
the  trees  opened  here  and  there,  showing  great 
round  gaps  of  blue  sky  where  long  files  of 
migratory  birds  were  passing  continually,  as 
upon  the  glass  of  a  telescope. 

When  the  breeze  shifted,  their  cries  could 
be  heard,  high  in  the  air.  Great  velvety  but- 
terflies were  coming  and  going,  making  sud- 
den stains  of  blue  and  black  on  the  yellow 
flowers  of  the  capparidacae.  Beetles  swayed 
the  wrinkled  stems  of  the  mint  plants.  An  in- 
visible spring,  to  which  brown  tree-frogs  were 
hastening,  sang. 

Annabel,  with  vacant  eyes,  was  dreaming. 
Pere  d'Exiles  saw  her  in  profile,  her  face 
framed  by  the  grey  aureole  of  an  immense, 
flat-brimmed  felt  hat.  The  long  folds  of  her 


SALT   LAKE  29 

riding  coat  of  iron  grey  with  large  silver  but- 
tons, dragged  to  the  ground.  She  wore  a 
jabot  and  cuffs  of  fine  English  point,  and  a 
bracelet  braided  with  opals  at  the  wrist  upon 
which  she  was  leaning  her  bent  head. 

Her  eye-lids  were  half-closed.  Her  tiny 
red  lips,  partly  opened,  seemed  to  be  drink- 
ing in  the  morning  air. 

All  of  a  sudden,  she  started.  Her  eyes 
opened. 

"There  they  are!" 

A  shrill  of  bugles  had  just  sounded.  Im- 
mediately the  clerks  from  Livingston  and 
Kinkaid's  stood  up,  ready  to  cheer  their  com- 
patriots. 

Nothing  could  be  seen  as  yet,  however,  since 
not  far  from  there,  at  the  right,  the  road  made 
an  elbow.  Then  the  bugles  became  more 
piercing.  They  echoed  back  from  the  bluish 
granite  of  the  Wahsatch  Mountains.  Then, 
two  cavalrymen  appeared.  Then,  all  the 
others.  They  were  dragging  along,  looking 
weary  and  mistrustful.  On  principle,  sol- 
diers dislike  entering  a  city  where  they  will  be 
forbidden  to  plunder.  That  displeasure 
could  be  seen  only  too  plainly  on  the  counten- 


30  SALT   LAKE 

ances  of  these  men.  On  that  account  the 
march  past  was  spoiled. 

The  two  first  cavalrymen  were  a  captain  and 
a  standard-bearer.  Following  them,  came  the 
buglers  of  the  2nd  Regiment  of  Dragoons. 

This  regiment  had  suffered  fearfully.  It 
was  in  Kansas  when  the  order  to  rejoin  the 
Johnston  army  had  arrived.  Hundreds  of 
leagues  across  rocky,  snow-covered  desert, 
where,  when  one  leaves  off  busying  oneself 
with  one's  saddlery  for  a  minute,  one  finds 
nothing  more,  except  sometimes  two  or  three 
coyotes,  too  stupefied  by  this  unhoped-for  re- 
past to  scatter.  It  is  by  the  horses  that  one 
perceives  the  sufferings  of  cavalry.  Those  be- 
longing to  the  buglers  of  the  Second  Dragoons 
were  in  a  pitiful  state.  Two  out  of  three  were 
unshod.  Three  out  of  three  were  broken- 
kneed.  They  no  longer  had  even  the  force 
to  kick  a  protest  against  the  appalling  deluge 
of  false  notes  that  their  riders  rained  upon 
them. 

"The  last  military  parade  which  I  at- 
tended," said  Pere  Philippe,  "was  unquestion- 
ably more  successful.  It  was  eighteen  years 
ago,  a  month  before  my  departure  from 


SALT   LAKE  31 

France,  in  Paris,  on  the  esplanade  of  the  In- 
valides,  upon  the  return  of  the  Ashes."  1 

"You  are  too  particular,"  said  Annabel. 
"But  here  comes  the  General  Staff." 

Directly  behind  the  buglers,  moved  for- 
ward a  group  of  officers.  Ahead  of  them  ad- 
vanced a  cavalryman  mounted  on  a  passably 
fine  white  mare.  About  fifty  years  old,  he 
was  martial  and  elegant  in  appearance.  A 
rotund  captain  accompanied  him.  When  the 
latter  saw  Annabel,  he  made  a  sign  of  pleased 
surprise  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  his  chief. 
He,  in  turn,  saluted  the  young  woman  with  a 
smile,  carrying  his  white-gloved  hand  to  his 
mustard  felt  hat. 

In  the  meantime,  the  rotund  captain,  setting 
his  horse  at  a  trot,  had  come  and  drawn-up  at 
the  foot  of  the  construction  from  which  Anna- 
bel and  Pere  d'Exiles  were  viewing  the  par- 
ade. 

Had  he  been  a  better  horseman,  he  would 
have  raised  his  arms  to  the  heavens  with  joy. 

"Captain  Van  Vliet!"  cried  Annabel. 

1  The  remains  of  Napoleon  were  brought  back  to  Paris  under 
Louis-Philippe  and  placed  in  the  Invalides  with  a  great  display 
of  military  pomp. 


32  SALT   LAKE 

And,  leaning  over  the  balustrade,  she  ex- 
tended her  hand  which  he  strained  to  kiss. 

"The  general-in-chief,"  he  said,  breathing 
hard,  "he  who  just  saluted  you  at  my  instiga- 
tion, directs  me  to  present  his  respects.  He 
wishes  to  know  if  you  have  received  his  invita- 
tion for  the  banquet  this  evening,  where  he 
hopes  that  he  will  be  able  to  express  his  grati- 
tude to  you  at  last.  I  have  told  him  many 
times  how  well  I  was  received  at  your  house 
six  months  ago,  during  the  sojourn  I  made  in 
Salt  Lake,  and  how  much  you  facilitated  my 
task." 

"I  have  received  General  Johnston's  invita- 
tion," said  Annabel,  "and  it  will  give  me  great 
pleasure  to  be  present.  But  does  he  know,  do 
you  know  that  I  intend  leaving  Salt  Lake  to- 
morrow, and  that  I  am  counting  on  his  kind- 
ness to  put  the  necessary  wagons  for  moving, 
at  my  disposal?" 

"He  knows  it.  The  orders  have  been  given. 
He  is  delighted  to  have  an  occasion  of  prov- 
ing my  thankfulness  to  you." 

"Until  tonight,  then!" 

"Until  tonight!  And  remember  that  the 
whole  army  is  at  your  disposal!" 


SALT   LAKE  33 

He  went  off  at  a  gallop  to  resume  his  place. 

The  Fifth  Regiment  of  Infantry  was  filing 
past  with  a  new  standard,  too  new  in  fact,  one 
of  those  standards  which  has  seen  little  service 
except  that  of  surreptitiously  warming  the  feet 
of  a  chilly  flag-bearer. 

At  that  moment,  they  halted.  The  head 
of  the  column  had  reached  the  wall  of  the 
enclosure.  The  army,  which  so  far  had  been 
progressing  rather  herd-like,  reorganized  it- 
self. Orders  rang  out  without  spirit,  executed 
with  still  less  spirit.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen 
that  discipline  had  suffered  much  in  the  course 
of  the  long,  wintry  months.  And  then  there 
was  the  presence  of  Annabel  Lee.  What  was 
that  young  woman  doing  there?  On  the 
threshold  of  the  accursed  city,  her  elegance 
dumfounded  that  mass  of  men  with  child-like 
souls. 

The  uniforms  were  thread-bare ;  becoming, 
nevertheless:  becoming,  especially  the  accou- 
trement, the  enormous  Minie  and  Colt  car- 
bines, the  revolvers  thrust  in  the  yellow  can- 
vas cartridge  belts,  the  bowie-knives,  the 
broad,  short  bayonets. 

"Ah !"  murmured  Pere  d'Exiles.     "It  seems 


34  SALT   LAKE 

to  me  that  the  artillery  is  in  very  bad  condi- 
tion." 

It  was  true.  The  mules  who  dragged  the 
cannon  were  rawboned  and  lame.  Out  of  the 
sixteen  guns  which  were  regularly  comprised 
in  the  two  batteries,  there  only  remained 
eleven.  The  others  could  be  pictured, 
muzzles  in  the  air,  at  the  bottom  of  some 
precipice  in  the  Rockies  or  smashed  against 
the  rocks  during  the  passage  of  a  badly 
sounded  ford  in  the  terrible  Green  River.  Of 
the  eleven  which  were  left,  there  was  a  howit- 
zer whose  left  wheel  had  been  replaced  by  one 
of  thick  wood,  unscrewed  from  a  wagon,  six 
rifled  guns,  of  the  Parrot  and  Rodman  system 
and  four  old  Dahlgren  pieces,  smooth-bore. 
Although  not  one  shell  had  been  fired  in  the 
course  of  the  whole  campaign,  the  ammuni- 
tion wagons  were  half-empty.  It  must  have 
been  necessary  to  lighten  them  in  negotiating 
the  passes,  when  the  harassed  teams,  protest- 
ing, kick  in  the  traces,  and  it  becomes  impera- 
tive to  choose  between  guns  and  ammunition. 

The  ensemble  gave  a  somewhat  poor  idea 
of  the  ballistic  power  of  the  Union. 


SALT   LAKE  35 

"Here  comes  Colonel  Alexander,"  said 
Annabel. 

She  smiled  at  the  commander  of  the  Tenth 
Infantry,  who  saluted  without  recognizing 
her,  being  too  concerned  with  his  regiment,  the 
most  tried,  the  most  undisciplined  of  the  army. 
Most  of  the  company  commanders  were  dis- 
mounted. They  marched  mob-like  amongst 
their  men.  Here,  no  more  uniforms.  There 
were  soldiers  without  muskets.  Many,  as 
they  pressed  forward,  were  munching  green 
slices  of  watermelons  which  their  officers  had 
all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  make  them 
throw  away.  No  mention  need  be  made  of 
the  way  they  kept  step. 

The  Jesuit  leaned  towards  Annabel. 

"I  understand  Brigham  Young,"  said  he, 
"and  his  obstinacy  in  refusing  to  allow  the 
Union  soldiers  to  camp  in  Salt  Lake.  This 
isn't  an  army,  it's  a  band  of  ragamuffins." 

"They  have  suffered  a  great  deal,"  said  the 
young  woman.  "But,  look,  their  cavalry 
seems  to  be  in  a  slightly  better  state." 

It  was  indeed  the  turn  of  the  famous  Second 
Dragoons,  recalled  to  reduce  the  Mormons, 


36  SALTLAKE 

from  Kansas,  where  they  had  been  charged 
to  lend  a  powerful  hand  to  the  Slavers.  Be- 
side the  horses,  bounded  several  of  those 
ferocious  blood-hounds  employed  in  running 
down  the  blacks  since  the  beginning  of  time, 
which  tradition  was  transmitted  to  democratic 
Americans  by  the  Spaniards. 

"I  wouldn't  counsel  Coriolan  to  play  at 
racing  with  them,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "Look 
at  the  fangs  of  this  one!" 

The  glance  of  Annabel  was  elsewhere.  He 
noticed  it. 

"Do  you  know  that  lieutenant?"   he  de- 
manded. 
"No,"  said  she. 

The  officer  of  whom  they  were  speaking 
was  a  tall  young  man  of  twenty-five,  who  sat 
astride  a  bay  mare,  quite  presentable.  He  re- 
garded Annabel  Lee  stealthily.  He  felt  the 
beautiful  calm  eyes  of  the  young  woman  upon 
him.  He  blushed.  At  the  same  time,  a  ridic- 
ulous little  incident  took  place.  The  officers 
were  not  the  only  ones  who  looked  at  Annabel. 
In  passing  close  by  her,  two  dragoons  mani- 
fested the  nature  of  the  pleasure  they  took  in 
her  beauty  in  a  fashion  very  military.  Their 


SALT   LAKE  37 

lieutenant  summoned  them,  with  up-raised 
riding  whip.  They  took  flight,  raging. 

"I  understand  Brigham  Young  more  and 
more,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

Annabel,  smiling,  followed  her  defender 
with  her  eyes.  He  rode  into  the  distance 
without  daring  to  turn  his  eyes. 

The  last  platoon  of  the  Second  Dragoons 
filed  past.  That  particular  platoon  had  not 
come  from  Kansas,  but  from  Nebraska,  where 
it  had  been  employed  in  tracking  the  Chey- 
enne Indians  for  the  past  two  years. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Here  the  methods 
of  propaganda  are  no  longer  the  same.  Look : 
in  place  of  hounds  to  hunt  negroes,  we  have 
the  Gospel,  the  Gospel  and  rum!" 

Indeed,  behind  the  last  troopers,  advanced 
six  little  wagons,  each  carrying  two  casks. 
Between  the  wagons,  on  mules,  ambled  five 
clergymen.  Three  wore  black  spectacles  and 
two  carried  white  parasols. 

Annabel  did  not  see  them.  Her  eyes, 
turned  towards  the  city,  had  become  vague 
once  more. 

"Those  gentlemen  do  not  seem  over  satis- 
fied to  see  me  here,"  said  the  Jesuit  laughingly. 


38  SALT   LAKE 

The  march  was  over.  Now  there  were 
wagons  loaded  with  tools  and  provisions  and 
the  multi-colored  rabble,  ordinary  accompani- 
ment of  campaigning  armies. 

"Let  us  go  away!"  said  the  priest  brusquely. 

Annabel  did  not  respond. 

"Can't  you  hear?"  he  said  with  impatience. 

Since  there  were  no  more  officers  to  recall 
them  to  order,  rough  remarks  began  to  rise 
from  that  mass  of  adventurers.  Insensible 
to  the  Presbyterian  insults  leveled  at  him  per- 
sonally, the  priest  could  no  longer  stand  those 
which  made  sport  of  his  companion's  beauty. 

"Come,"  he  said  to  her  rudely. 

They  remounted  their  horses  and  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later,  having  made  a  detour,  they 
entered  the  garden  of  the  villa.  It  was  noon. 
The  sun,  far  off,  burned  the  saline  plain  and 
made  the  over-ripe  kernels  of  the  great  wav- 
ing horse-chestnuts  explode  under  their  feet 
like  fire-crackers. 

The  table  was  laid  under  the  trees,  in  front 
of  the  veranda.  Annabel  went  into  her  room. 
She  descended  again,  dressed  all  in  white 
muslin,  bare  armed,  with  a  tiny  knot  of  black 
ribbon  at  her  throat. 


SALT   LAKE  39 

The  priest  said  the  prayers.  They  sat 
down. 

"Was  there  anything  new  during  my  ab- 
sence?" asked  the  young  woman  of  Coriolan, 
who  stood  behind  her,  rigid  in  his  flannel 
livery. 

The  negro,  without  uttering  a  word,  handed 
her  a  yellow  envelope. 

She  glanced  at  it. 

"Well!"  said  she.  "The  government  seal. 
It  must  be  for  my  baggage.  Will  you  excuse 
me,  mon  pere?" 

She  had  torn  open  the  envelope.  She  was 
reading.  An  expression  of  surprise  and  an- 
noyance passed  over  her  face. 

"What  is  it?" 

The  Jesuit  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her. 

"Nothing  serious?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  said  she. 

She  had  dropped  the  letter  upon  the  table. 
Upon  a  sign  from  her,  he  took  it. 

It  was  a  sheet  of  paper  bearing  the  govern- 
ment seal  of  the  Territory  of  Utah. 

"The  Cantonment  Commission  assembled 
in  Salt  Lake  City"  were  the  words  written 
there,  "having  the  right  to  billet  officers  of 


40  SALTLAKE 

the  Federal  Army,  has  decided  that,  during 
the  sojourn  of  the  said  Army  in  the  immediate 
suburbs  of  the  city,  Mrs.  Lee  will  be  required 

to  lodge  an  officer,  his  board  remaining  op- 
tional." 

Pere  d'Exiles  gazed  at  the  young  woman. 
Impatiently,  she  drummed  upon  the  table 
with  her  fingers. 

"It's  the  normal  thing,"  he  said.  "We 
might  have  expected  it." 

"Expected  it!"  cried  Annabel.  "Governor 
Gumming  knows  quite  well  that  I  intend  leav- 
ing Salt  Lake  City  tomorrow  evening.  It  is 
he  himself  who  promised  to  take  steps  so  that 
I  may  profit  from  the  army  wagons  returning 
empty  to  Omaha  and  Missouri.  I  could  have 
hoped,  under  those  circumstances,  that  he 
would  not  withdraw  with  his  left  hand  the 
favours  he  extended  me  with  his  right." 

The  Jesuit  shook  his  head. 

"Governor  Gumming  has  much  to  preoc- 
cupy him  these  days,"  said  he. 

"The  letter  is  sent  in  his  name,"  said  Anna- 
bel. 

"Doubtless,"  mused  the  priest  who  had 
taken  back  the  paper.  "Nevertheless,  it  was 


SALTLAKE  41 

not  he  who  signed  it.  And  do  you  know  ex- 
actly who  signed  this  letter?" 

"Who?" 

"Look.  By  order  of  the  Governor,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Cantonment  Commission : 
RIGDON  PRATT." 

"Rigdon  Pratt!"  echoed  Annabel. 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"A  little  while  ago,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles, 
"I  did  not  choose  to  take  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, while  Judge  Sydney  was  casting  doubts 
upon  the  quality  of  the  gratitude  which  this 
Rigdon's  daughter  may  profess  to  you.  It  is 
always  difficult  to  pronounce  oneself  in  agree- 
ment with  a  scoundrel,  even  when  one  is  aware 
that  the  scoundrel  is  perfectly  right.  I  kept 
silent.  But  now  I  can  tell  you :  Sydney  was 
right.  There  you  have,"  and  he  showed  the 
letter,  "a  little  of  the  spitefulness  of  Sarah 
Pratt." 

"But  why?     How?" 

"How?  Sarah  knows  quite  well  that  you 
are  leaving  tomorrow.  She  is  seeking  to  re- 
compense your  kindness,  by  spoiling  the  two 
days  left  for  you  to  stay  here.  I  add  that  her 


42  SALT   LAKE 

procedure  is  very  inoffensive.  I  should  have 
thought  that  she  would  be  more  malicious." 

"Just  the  same  I  am  very  annoyed,"  said 
Annabel. 

"Annoyed?    Why?" 

"All  the  furniture  is  packed.  You  wouldn't 
wish  me  to  give  my  room  to  that  officer  when 
he  presents  himself,  which  no  doubt  he  is 
about  to  do." 

"It  would  be  more  natural  to  give  him 
mine,"  said  the  Jesuit  placidly.  "That  is 
what  you  will  have  to  do  for  today.  But 
don't  forget  that  you  are  dining  tonight  with 
the  Governor,  and  that  he,  General  Johnston, 
Colonel  Alexander  and  Captain  Van  Vliet  ask 
nothing  better  than  to  do  you  a  service.  A 
word  from  you,  and  the  order  for  billeting  an 
officer  here  will  be  countermanded,  with  apol- 
ogies. While  waiting,  my  advice  is  to  take 
heart  against  this  piece  of  ill-fortune.  And, 
then,  that  poor  boy  must  be  tired.  You 
musn't  hold  him  responsible  for  the  pleasant- 
ries of  that  little  pest  of  a  Sarah  Pratt." 

Coriolan  had  just  served  coffee.  There  was 
a  ring  at  the  garden  gate. 

"It  is  he,"  said  Annabel.     "What  a  bore!" 


SALTLAKE  43 

The  negro  returned,  bearer  of  a  sheet  of 
yellow  paper.  Pere  Philippe  snatched  it. 

"It  is  he.  Lieutenant  James  Rutledge,  of 
the  Second  Dragoons." 

"Go  get  him,"  said  Annabel  to  the  negro. 

Steps  on  the  sand  of  the  walk.  Conducted 
by  Coriolan,  two  men  advanced.  One  was 
a  soldier,  loaded  with  a  canteen.  The  other 
was  the  blond  officer  who  had  blushed  so 
deeply  under  the  scrutiny  of  Annabel  Lee  that 
morning,  at  the  review.  .  .  . 

"Ah!"  said  the  young  woman,  recognizing 
him. 

And  she  smiled. 


CHAPTER  II 

ROSE  had  applied  herself  so  well  to 
the  menu  that,  although  dinner  had 
begun  at  about  eight  o'clock,  it  was 
nine  thirty  before  the  two  guests  had  attacked 
the  dessert,  a  pineapple  souffle,  which  Corio- 
lan  served  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  glisten- 
ing with  admiration  and  covetousness. 

At  the  same  time,  he  placed  upon  the  table 
two  bottles  which  Pere  d'Exiles  uncorked 
with  precaution. 

Thereupon,  leaning  back  slightly  in  his 
chair,  Lieutenant  Rutledge  asked:  "Do  you 
belong,  sir,  by  any  chance,  to  the  Picpus  mis- 
sionaries of  Paris?" 

"I  do  belong,  indeed,  to  the  Picpus  com- 
munity," said  the  Jesuit.  "What  led  you  to 
suspect  it?" 

"My  maternal  grandmother  was  a  native  of 
Saint-Louis,  and  a  Catholic,"  answered  the 
Lieutenant.  "I  myself  am  a  Methodist,"  he 
hastened  to  add. 

44 


SALTLAKE  45 

The  priest  nodded  politely,  as  if  to  say: 
"I  regret  it,"  or  else:  "Every  one  has  a  right 
to  his  opinions." 

"As  a  child,"  continued  James  Rutledge, 
"I  often  spent  my  vacations  at  my  grand- 
mother's. I  learned  there  that  the  Jesuits  in 
Saint-Louis  came  for  the  most  part  from 
the  Picpus  community.  Indeed,  at  my 
grandmother's,  I  met  one  of  your  colleagues, 
Monsieur  Lestrade." 

"It  is  true.  Father  Lestrade  was  in  Los 
Angeles  recently.  He  was  obliged  to  leave 
that  city  for  Chile.  Won't  you  have  a  little 
more  of  this  Isabella  wine?" 

"It  is  good,"  murmured  the  officer,  empty- 
ing his  glass  clumsily. 

"Too  exhilarating,  too  sweet  for  my  taste," 
said  the  Jesuit.  "Mrs.  Lee,  however,  is  very 
fond  of  it.  For  myself,  I  prefer  the  Catawba, 
dryer, — lacking  fire,  perhaps.  Think  of  it, 

it  comes  from  Rhine  vines  transplanted  to  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio.  They  have  an  excellent 

vintage  from  the  hills  near  Ogden,  not  quite 
so  good  at  Cedar  City.  This  one  comes  from 
Ogden.  Taste  it." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  know  the  country 


46  SALT   LAKE 

marvellously  well,"  said  the  young  man,  whose 
eyes  were  beginning  to  sparkle. 

The  Jesuit  smiled.  "Brigham  Young  ar- 
rived at  Salt  Lake  with  the  first  fugitive  Mor- 
mons on  the  24th  of  July,  1847.  I  had  pre- 
ceded them  by  four  years.  It  was  in  1843 
that  I  left  Saint-Louis  with  the  mission  of 
evangelizing  the  Indians  between  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  Humboldt  River.  Upon  my 
arrival  here,  I  found  Colonel  Fremont,  en- 
trusted by  the  Federal  Government  with  the 
survey  of  the  proposed  railway  from  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Pacific.  I  placed  my  faint 
knowledge  of  trigonometry  at  his  disposal. 
Perhaps  you  know,  sir,  that  at  the  present 
moment,  there  are  three  projects  for  the  road- 
bed of  that  railway:  the  route  along  the  42nd 
degree  of  latitude,  that  of  Fremont; — the 
route  along  the  39th  degree,  that  of  ... 
But  what  am  I  talking  about!" 

"Go  on,  I  beg  of  you !" 

"What  is  the  use?  Sufficient  for  you  to 
know  that  I  served  as  guide  and  interpreter 
to  the  Federal  officers  entrusted  with  the  sur- 
veys, so  that  today,  there  are  very  few  places 
from  Fort  Hall  to  Lake  Carson  and  Las  Ve- 


SALT   LAKE  47 

gas,  where  I  risk  being  lost  a  single  day.  A 
little  more  Catawba?  No?  You  really  pre- 
fer the  Isabella?  .  .  .  Here." 

"The  more  I  think  about  it,"  said  Rutledge, 
"the  more  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  seen  your 
name  some  place  before." 

"It  is  possible,"  said  the  priest,  "although 
I  try  my  best  to  accomplish  my  task  silently, 
with  utter  discretion.  But  one  does  not  al- 
ways succeed.  I  can  assure  you,  I  did  not 
look  upon  the  advent  of  the  Mormons  upon 
these  shores  with  a  favourable  eye.  My  mis- 
givings were  unfounded,  for  during  the  past 
eight  years,  I  have  been  able  to  keep  myself 
out  of  their  quarrels  with  the  functionaries  of 
the  Federal  Government.  Alas  to  say!  I 
have  not  had  such  luck  with  the  Indians." 

"Have  they  persecuted  you?" 

"Mostly  by  my  own  fault.  The  object  of 
my  mission  was  to  preach  the  Gospel  to  three 
tribes,  the  Shoshones  to  the  North,  the  Utahs 
and  the  Pahyantes  to  the  South.  I  have  had 
difficulties  with  the  Utahs.  Four  years  ago, 
their  chief,  Wahsara,  condemned  me  to  death 
by  default.  His  successor,  Arapine,  con- 
firmed the  sentence.  They  have  left  no  stone 


48  SALT   LAKE 

unturned  to  notify  and  renotify  me  of  it.  I 
asked  my  superiors  what  line  of  conduct  I 
should  follow.  From  a  commonsense  point 
of  view,  their  reply  was  the  reply  I  should 
have  made  myself :  'Your  work  with  the  Pah- 
yantes  and  the  Shoshones  is  far  from  finished. 
Complete  it.  Then  you  can  see  about  return- 
ing to  the  Utahs.'  That  is  why,  having  said 
about  all  I  had  to  say  to  the  Pahyantes,  when 
I  leave  Salt  Lake  City  in  fifteen  days,  it  will 
be  to  return  to  the  Shoshones.  For  the  time 
being,  the  shores  of  Lake  Sevier  are  forbidden 
territory." 

"Lake  Sevier,"  said  Rutledge.  "Ah!  now 
I  remember  where  I  read  your  name.  It  was 
in  connection  with  the  Gunnison  affair." 

The  eyes  of  the  Jesuit  saddened. 

"It  is  only  too  true,"  said  he.  "And  from 
all  points  of  view,  it  was  a  deplorable  affair. 
I  told  you  I  was  Fremont's  companion  on  the 
42nd  degree  expedition.  In  1849,  I  offered 
myself  in  the  same  capacity  to  Captain  Stans- 
bury,  charged  with  the  topographical  survey 
of  the  valley  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake.  When 
Captain  Gunnison,  who  was  commissioned  to 
study  the  route  along  the  39th  degree,  ar- 


SALT   LAKE  49 

rived  in  Salt  Lake  in  1853,  he  sought  me  out 
immediately.  It  happened  that  at  that  per- 
iod I  was  on  excellent  terms  with  the  Utahs, 
upon  whose  territory  passed  the  aforemen- 
tioned rout.  My  mistake  was  to  believe  that 
I  could  benefit  Gunnison  and  his  little  band  by 
my  influence  with  the  Indians.  It  was  Octo- 
ber. The  Sevier  river  rolled  its  dull  grey 
waters  under  the  pale  willows,  under  whose 
over-hanging  branches  fled  unseen  black-birds 
and  king-fishers,  crying  plaintively.  From 
time  to  time,  the  sudden  plunge  of  an  otter. 
The  caravan  plodded  along.  Never,  never 
have  I  felt  so  discouraged.  Toward  evening, 
they  built  fires  around  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  of  wagons.  Then  the  dogs  barked. 
There  appeared  three  Indians,  on  horse,  who 
came  seeking  me  to  attend  one  of  their  chiefs 
on  his  death-bed.  In  spite  of  my  presenti- 
ments, I  followed  them.  Understand  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  do  otherwise.  I 
have  never  discovered  whether,  by  acting  as 
they  did,  the  Indians  wanted  to  save  me  or  to 
obey  the  will  of  their  chief.  When  I  arrived, 
after  a  journey  of  three  hours  in  the  night, 
the  chief  was  dead,  already  rigid.  I  wanted 


50  SALT   LAKE 

to  return  immediately  and  re-join  the  caravan. 
But  it  was  raining  in  torrents.  The  roads 
were  obscure.  I  stayed.  The  next  day,  at 
the  earliest  possible  hour,  I  set  off  again.  The 
spectacle  awaiting  me  upon  my  return  to  the 
camp  was  ten  times  more  atrocious  than  de- 
scribed by  the  American  newspapers.  Volun- 
tarily, when  their  correspondents  questioned 
me,  I  extenuated  the  circumstances.  To  what 
end  serve  the  details  of  such  a  horrible  affair? 
The  overturned  wagons  were  still  smoking  in 
the  sinister,  rainy  morning.  There  were  nine 
dead  bodies.  I  recognized  those  of  Creutz- 
feld,  the  botanist,  and  of  Gunnison,  although 
the  ghastly  coyotes  had  half-devoured  the 
faces.  Gunnison  had  lost  an  arm  and  his  body 
was  pierced  by  twenty  arrows.  .  .  .  The 
Indians  had  disappeared." 

"The  wretches!"  cried  Rutledge,  clenching 
his  fists. 

The  Jesuit  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"The  wretches!  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  I  said 
it  too,  at  first.  Meeting  a  band  of  Indians  two 
hours  later,  I  cried  at  them  with  fury,  with 
indignation,  with  sorrow, — sorrow  above  all, 
for  you  must  understand  what  the  soul  of  a 
missionary  has  to  go  through  in  such  a  mo- 


SALTLAKE  51 

ment.  I  told  them  that  with  that  very  step 
I  was  on  the  way  to  denounce  them  before  the 
American  authorities  and  that  the  reprisals 
would  be  terrible.  .  .  .  They  were,  sir! 
They  tossed  their  heads,  made  no  reply,  let  me 

go.  .  .  ." 

"And  .  .  .  what  did  you  do  then?" 

"What  did  I  do?  You  know,  sir.  I  drew 
up  my  report.  Two  years  later,  nevertheless, 
that  report  did  not  prevent  Judge  Drummond, 
in  the  interests  of  a  dishonest  undertaking, 
from  accusing  the  Mormons  of  Gunnison's 
murder  and  from  unleashing  upon  the  Terri- 
tory of  Utah  that  expedition  which  has  just 
terminated  by  the  entry  of  the  Federal  Army 
into  Salt  Lake  City.  I  was  powerless  to  pre- 
vent that  injustice.  So  that  at  the  moment,  if 
it  had  to  be  done  again.  .  .  ." 

"If  it  had  to  be  done  again?" 

"I  would  keep  silent." 

The  lieutenant's  eyes  lit  with  'a  sombre, 
fanatical  flame. 

"The  truth  must  never  be  concealed,"  he 
muttered  in  a  raucous  voice. 

"The  truth !"  exclaimed  the  priest.  He  re- 
garded the  other  calmly.  "The  truth?"  he 
repeated. 


52  SALT   LAKE 

"Yes,  my  dear  sir,  the  truth,"  insisted  the 
young  man. 

"A  little  more  of  this  excellent  Catawba," 
said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

And  he  filled  the  other's  glass  forcibly. 

"I  am  forty-six  years  old,  sir,"  said  he,  after 
a  silence,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice,  suddenly 
very  grave,  gave  an  extraordinary  impression 
of  force  and  authority  to  his  words.  "I  am 
forty-six  years  old.  And  because  I  have  come 
a  long,  long  way,  because  I  have  learned  to 
judge  things,  not  by  themselves,  but  in  relation 
to  their  surroundings,  it  may  be  that  I  am  per- 
mitted to  have  a  very  different  conception  of 
the  truth  from  that  of  a  professor,  whose 
world  is  limited  by  the  four  walls  within 
which  he  teaches." 

uWhat  is  just  is  just.  What  is  unjust  is 
unjust,"  said  Rutledge. 

"I  like  to  think  so,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Lis- 
ten to  me,  however.  I  repeat  to  you,  I  have 
seen  the  slashed  corpses  of  Gunnison  and  his 
companions  and  it  was  a  frightful  and  un- 
righteous spectacle.  But,  after  the  Govern- 
ment at  Washington,  in  retaliation,  had 
thrown  a  cruel  blockade  about  the  territory  of 


SALT   LAKE  53 

the  Utahs,  keeping  out  all  the  necessities  of 
life, — this  is  what  I  saw:  little  red-skins  dying 
on  their  mothers'  empty  breasts  by  hundreds 
from  cold  and  hunger,  warriors  killing  each 
other  for  a  morsel  of  buffalo,  a  whole  people, 
free  and  prosperous  in  former  times,  herded 
about  like  cattle,  decimated,  reduced  to 
nothing.  .  .  .  That  also,  sir,  was  a  frightful 
and  unrighteous  spectacle.  That  abomina- 
tion, however,  arose  from  the  truth  as  told  by 
your  humble  servant,  just  as  directly  as  a  river 
rises  from  its  source.  Believe  me,  such  an 
affair  is  enough  to  dampen  our  enthusiasm 
over  principles  and  to  suggest  that  we  be  less 
concerned  with  abstract  values  than  with  prac- 
tical repercussions." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  lieutenant  ill-hu- 
mouredly, "those  questions  are  beyond  my 
competence,  and  it  is  too  easy  to  argue  with 
me.  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  have  learned 
from  our  ministers,  and  I  imagine  that,  if  you 
had  to  do  with  one  of  them  instead  of  with 
me.  .  .  ." 

"I  should  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
measuring  myself  in  the  lists  with  one  of  those 
gentlemen,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  smiling.  "It 


54  SALT   LAKE 

seems  to  me  that  I  noticed  three  or  four  of 
them  following  the  troops.  Are  they  coming 
in  competition?" 

"No,"  said  Rutledge  dryly.  "They  are  the 
chaplains  who  accompany  the  army." 

The  repast  was  over.  The  Jesuit  drew  out 
his  watch. 

"Eleven  o'clock,"  he  said.  "Our  hostess 
cannot  delay  much  longer.  The  Governor's 
reception  must  be  near  its  end." 

"General  Johnston  loves  to  dawdle  at  table. 
And  then  there  are  the  speeches." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  priest.  "She 
can't  be  much  longer." 

For  some  time  a  question  had  evidently 
been  burning  the  tip  of  the  young  man's 
tongue.  He  'posed  it  with  that  disdain  of 
transitions  characteristic  of  Anglo-Americans. 

"You  are,  no  doubt,  Mrs.  Lee's  uncle?" 

"No." 

"Her  cousin,  perhaps?" 

"No." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Rutledge. 

And  he  lapsed  into  a  reproving  silence. 

"I  am  nothing  to  Mrs.  Lee,  sir,"  said  the 
Jesuit.  "No  bonds,  except  those  of  friend- 


SALT   LAKE  55 

ship,  link  me  to  her.  Friendship  and  likewise 
gratitude,  for  it  is  true  that  during  the  year  in 
which  she  has  been  in  Salt  Lake,  upon  each  of 
my  visits  in  this  city,  I  have  not  scrupled  to 
profit  by  the  wide  hospitality  which  you  ob- 
serve. Those  times  are  nearing  an  end. 
They  are  at  an  end." 

"She   is   very   beautiful,"    murmured   the 

young  man.  "Very  beautiful,"  he  dared  re- 
peat. 

His  remark  remained  unanswered.  The 
Jesuit  had  arisen. 

"Would  you  like,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  slightly 
altered  voice,  "to  come  out  on  the  terrace  for  a 
little  while?  The  night,  too,  is  very  beauti- 
ful. It  is  criminal  to  enjoy  it  so  little." 

They  went  out.  On  the  veranda  there  was 
a  table.  With  cool  drinks,  and  two  wicker 
arm-chairs.  They  seated  themselves.  Their 
cigar-tips,  red,  glistened  in  the  blue  night.  In 
the  sky  the  Milky  Way  extended  its  smooth 
white  scarf. 

Nothing  could  be  heard  except  the  two 
voices,  very  low:  that  of  the  officer,  almost 
timid ;  that  of  the  Jesuit,  changed,  moved  and 
serious.  .  .  .  Tomorrow,  at  that  very  hour, 
Annabel  Lee  would  have  left  Salt  Lake,  per- 


56  SALT   LAKE 

haps  for  ever.  That  was  the  thought  forming 
the  background  against  which  the  other 
thoughts  of  Pere  d'Exiles  were  silhouetted. 

It  was  plain  that  he  almost  loved  the  new- 
comer for  the  obstinacy  he  employed  in  press- 
ing his  interlocutor  to  converse  with  him  about 
the  young  woman. 

Lieutenant  Rutledge. — You  can  imagine  my 
astonishment  when  I  perceived  her,  youthful, 
elegant  and  beautiful,  leaning  'against  the 
balustrade  of  that  observatory.  It  was  the 
last  vision  in  the  world  that  we  might  have 
expected  here. 

Pere  d'Exiles. — Look,  in  that  rectangle  of 
light  made  by  the  open  door  in  the  dining- 
room.  Do  you  see  that  slender  black  bird 
which  comes  and  goes?  It  is  a  purple  martin. 

The  Lieutenant.— Well? 

The  Priest. — A  purple  martin.  If  it  were 
day-light,  you  might  see  his  blue  jacket,  the 
beautiful  little  russet  feathers  on  his  belly. 
He  arrived  here  a  year  ago.  Almost  at  the 
same  time  as  she! 

The  Lieutenant. — At  the  same  time  as 
she.  .  .  . 

The   Priest. — At   the   same    time    as   she. 


SALTLAKE  57 

Those  little  creatures  come  from  the  Southern 
States.  One  April  day,  I  saw  thousands  of 
them  near  the  Falls  of  the  Ohio.  The  mer- 
cury registered  18°  below  zero.  Most  of 
them  were  dead,  almost  all  of  them.  Their 
wings  were  frozen.  .  .  .  They  arrive  here 
in  June.  Then,  in  September,  they  leave  the 
neighbourhood.  They  return  to  Florida  with 
the  winds.  This  one  remained. 

The  Lieutenant- — She  had  come! 

The  Priest. — He  remained.  He  was  seen 
no  more  for  fifteen  days.  We  thought  he  had 
left  with  the  others.  Then,  one  day  in  Octo- 
ber, we  heard  faint  pecks  at  the  closed  win- 
dows on  the  porch.  It  was  he.  We  opened 
the  windows  for  him.  He  entered.  He  began 
to  peck  at  the  window-panes  upon  the  flies 
which  had  been  kept  alive  by  the  warmth  of 
the  interior.  Look  at  him,  look  how  he  comes 
and  goes,  how  he  darts  about,  how  merry  he  is! 
What  will  he  do,  after  tomorrow  morn- 
ing, when  he  learns  that  she  is  no  longer 
here ! 

The  Lieutenant. — Is  it  absolutely  necessary 

for  her  to  go  tomorrow  evening? 

The  Priest. — It  is  absolutely  necessary. 


58  SALT   LAKE 

The  Lieutenant. — Why  did  she  come  to 
Salt  Lake? 

The  Priest. — You  might  just  as  well  ask  me 
her  whole  history. 

The  Lieutenant. — Would  that  be  indis- 
creet? 

The  Priest. — It  would,  if  she  were  not  going 
away  tomorrow  night. 

The  Lieutenant. — I  am  listening. 

The  Priest. — It  will  not  be  long  in  the  tell- 
ing. I  don't  know  where  to  begin. 

The  Lieutenant. — Why  ...  at  the  begin- 
ning! 

The  Priest. — How  childish!  You  com- 
pletely ignore  the  art  of  unfolding  a  story. 
May  I  ask  what  state  you  are  a  native  of? 

The  Lieutenant. — Of  Illinois,  from  Chi- 
cago. 

The  Priest. — From  Chicago.  Then  one 
may  say  that  you  are  a  real  American. 

The  Lieutenant. — One  may  say  so  without 
any  exaggeration. 

The  Priest. — Perhaps  you  had  an  Irish 
nurse  when  you  were  little. 

The  Lieutenant — I  did.  But  what  makes 
you  ask  me  that? 

The  Priest. — I  know  that  there  are  many 


SALT   LAKE  59 

Irish  nurses  employed  by  the  rich  Americans 
of  the  Northern  States. 

The  Lieutenant. — I  repeat,  I  had  one. 
But  Mrs.  Rutledge, — my  mother — never  al- 
lowed her  to  talk  to  me,  nor  to  my  little  sister, 
Margaret.  On  account  of  the  accent,  you 
understand.  We  Americans  have  enough 
other  difficulties  in  speaking  English  without 
an  accent.  When  we  are  first  taught  by  an 
Irish  nurse,  there  is  really  no  hope. 

The  Priest. — I  understand  your  honourable 
mother.  What  was  the  name  of  that  nurse? 

The  Lieutenant. — Jane,  I  believe.  I  must 
say  we  didn't  keep  her  very  long.  Once,  a 
little  gold  cross  on  a  satin  ribbon  disappeared. 
Mrs.  Rutledge  showed  Jane  the  door.  After- 
wards, they  found  the  cross  and  the  ribbon! 
It  was  my  little  sister  Margaret  who  had  hid- 
den them.  Afraid  of  being  whipped,  she  had 
not  confessed.  Just  a  child,  you  understand. 

The  Priest. — I  understand.  I  have  read 
somewhere  another  story  on  that  order.  Just 
so,  in  a  book  by  one  of  your  fellow-believers.1 
And  Jane? 

The    Lieutenant. — Really,    I    don't   know 

*  A  reference  to  an  episode  in  the  Confessions  of  Jean-Jatques 
Rousseau. 


6o  SALT   LAKE 

what  became  of  her.  Was  she  even  called 
Jane?  I  would  not  swear  to  it.  Besides,  why 
do  you  take  such  an  interest  in  that  girl? 

The  Priest. — It  happens  that  Mrs.  Lee,  in 
whom  you  yourself  seem  to  take  a  great  in- 
terest, is  also  Irish. 

The  Lieutenant. — Ah! 

The  Priest. — It  annoys  you  that  your  beauti- 
ful hostess  of  today  should  come  from  the 
same  country  as  your  former  servant  girl. 
Doubtless  you  would  have  much  preferred  her 
to  be  American? 

The  Lieutenant. — I  don't  deny  it. 

The  Priest. — Is  that  all  you  remember  of 
Jane? 

The  Lieutenant. — That's  all.  She  had  come 
to  the  United  States  in  consequence  of  a  fam- 
ine which  ravaged  her  country,  in  1842,  it 
seems  to  me. 

The  Priest.— Exactly  in  1842. 

The  Lieutenant. — I  was  twelve  years  old. 
I  still  remember  that  she  was  always  very 
badly  dressed,  in  a  style  unworthy  of  a  well- 
to-do  household.  Mrs.  Rutledge  was  very 
astonished  at  her,  rather  vexed,  for  you  must 
admit  that  with  the  wages  they  gave  her, — five 


SALT   LAKE  61 

dollars    a    month,    not    counting    occasional 
gifts.  .  .  . 

The  Priest. — They  were  indeed  very  com- 
petent wages. 

The  Lieutenant. — Yes,  indeed.  Above  all, 
when  one  takes  into  account  the  fact  that  Chi- 
cago at  that  time  was  just  a  small  town  .  .  . 
barely  eight  thousand  inhabitants.  Later  on, 
we  discovered  what  used  to  become  of  Jane's 
money.  .  .  . 

The  Priest. — What  became  of  it? 

The  Lieutenant. — It  went  to  swell  the  funds 
of  the  revolutionary  associations  of  her  coun- 
try. You  smile? 

The  Priest. — I  smile,  when  I  think  that 
Jane's  money  passed  through  the  hands  of 
Colonel  Lee,  the  husband  of  your  hostess. 

The  Lieutenant. — Was  he  a  banker? 

The  Priest. — No.  Unpromising  under- 
takings rarely  have  resource  to  such  costly 
go-betweens. 

The  Lieutenant. — Why  did  he  come  to 
America? 

The  Priest. — Like  Jane,  precisely.  First, 
to  escape  death;  then,  to  seek  means  of  con- 
tinuing the  struggle. 


62  SALT   LAKE 

The  Lieutenant. — To  escape  death? 

The  Priest. — Around  1840,  there  were  two 
Irish  officers  who  were  serving  with  the  Eng- 
lish army.  One  was  called  Colonel  Lee,  the 
other  Colonel  O'Brien. 

The  Lieutenant. — Was  it  the  same  O'Brien 
who  .  .  .  ? 

The  Priest. — No,  it  was  not  that  one. 
O'Brien  is  as  common  a  name  in  Ireland  as 
Martin  is  with  us,  or  Wilson  with  you.  Never 
mind.  At  the  time  of  the  great  famine 
of  1842,  there  were  disturbances  in  Ireland, 
followed  by  executions.  Colonels  Lee  and 
O'Brien,  convicted  of  belonging  to  the  White- 
boys,  were  condemned  to  death.  O'Brien  was 
executed.  Lee  was  able  to  escape,  taking 
away  with  him  his  friend's  daughter,  who  was 
then  twelve  years  old,  alone  in  the  world  and 
an  orphan.  They  sought  refuge  in  the  United 
States. 

The  Lieutenant. — America  has  always 
offered  a  wide  asylum  to  the  persecuted. 

The  Priest. — She  derives  both  honour  and 
profit  therefrom.  Colonel  Lee  came  to  Saint- 
Louis.  He  confided  Annabel  to  the  Ursu- 
line  Convent  there.  I  myself  had  just  arrived. 
I  can  still  see  that  little  girl  in  her  straight 


SALT   LAKE  63 

black  convent  garments,  in  the  chapel  where, 
by  chance,  I  was  preaching  as  a  substitute 
during  a  retreat.  'There  is  some  one,'  I  said 
to  myself,  'who  pays  absolutely  no  attention  to 
my  oratorical  efforts.'  I  wagered  that  I 
would  end  by  interesting  her.  At  the  end  of 
a  half-hour,  I  descended  from  the  pulpit, — 
my  wager  lost. 

The  Lieutenant. — Did  she  marry? 

The  Priest. — Peste!  How  you  run  ahead 
of  the  story!  Have  confidence  in  me  and  be 
assured  that  I  am  only  telling  you  such  things 
about  myself  as  are  strictly  necessary  in 
illuminating  her  own  history. 

The  Lieutenant. — I   beg  your  pardon. 

The  Priest. — No  harm  done.  Meanwhile, 
I  left  Saint-Louis,  having  acquired  just  about 
all  the  instruction  necessary  to  my  task  as  a 
missionary.  I  came  here.  It  was  a  barren 
plain.  I  confess  that  I  did  not  foresee  for  a 
second  the  prosperity  which  the  Mormons 
were  destined  to  bring  about  here.  One  fine 
morning,  they  arrived,  and  with  them  Colonel 
Lee. 

The  Lieutenant. — And  Miss  O'Brien? 

The  Priest. — You  can  well  believe  that  she 
was  not  involved  in  that  undertaking.  She 


64  SALT   LAKE 

was  staying  quietly  at  her  convent  in  Saint- 
Louis.  It  was  in  1848.  Perhaps  you  have 
heard  people  speak  of  Nueva  Helvetia? 

The  Lieutenant. — It  was  there  that  gold  was 
discovered. 

The  Priest. — Yes.  It  was  there  that  the 
Mormon  James  Marshall,  while  spading  the 
ground  for  a  conduit  destined  to  bring  water 
to  a  saw-mill,  discovered  gold  dust.  Nueva 
Helvetia  is  in  California.  That  was  the  ori- 
gin of  the  rush  which  you  know  about.  The 
Mormon  pioneers,  knowing  only  their  terrible 
discipline,  returned  to  the  new-born  Salt  Lake 
City,  their  flimsy  carts  loaded  with  the  first 
sacks  of  gold-dust.  It  was  then  that  Colonel 
Lee  intervened. 

The  Lieutenant. — Did  he  go  to  the  gold- 
fields? 

The  Priest— He.  did  not.  And  he  dis- 
suaded Brigham  Young,  over  whom  he 
wielded  a  strange  secret  influence,  from  letting 
his  people  go.  By  that  advice,  that  stranger, 
more  than  any  one  else,  has  been  the  creator  of 
Mormon  strength. 

The  Lieutenant. — How  is  that? 

The  Priest.— Childishly  simple.  The  race 
for  gold  was  the  ruination  of  the  theocratic 


SALT   LAKE  65 

power  established  by  Joseph  Smith  and  main- 
tained by  Brigham.  It  was  necessary  to  con- 
demn it.  This  was  aimed  at  in  a  circular  let- 
ter from  the  Church:  "Gold,"  was  the  sub- 
stance of  the  letter,  'Ts  good  for  paving  streets, 
roofing  houses  and  making  table-ware.  The 
treasures  of  this  earth  are  in  the  ware-house  of 
the  Lord :  produce  grain,  build  cities  and  He 
will  do  the  rest." 

The  Lieutenant. — Those  people  must  be  in- 
sane. 

The  Priest- — Much  less  so  than  you  think. 
Thanks  to  that  condemnation,  Brigham  main- 
tained his  power  which  is, — I  regret  to  ob- 
serve,— essentially  spiritual.  Adventurers 
from  all  over  the  world  have  been  coming  for 
the  past  ten  years  to  be  swallowed  in  the  Cali- 
fornian  abyss:  Brigham  Young  has  guarded 
his  followers  around  him,  sheltered  from  the 
gold-lust. 

The  Lieutenant. — And  the  sacks  of  gold 
which  had  been  carried  to  him  to  begin  with? 

The  Priest. — Aha!  I  see  that  you  have  a 
good  memory!  Well,  they  were  offered  as  a 
gift  to  the  church.  But  of  it  Brigham  Young 
coined  money.  Pieces  of  five  and  ten  dollars 
were  struck  with  the  motto:  Holiness  to  the 


66  SALT   LAKE 

Lord.  At  the  same  time,  the  Mormon  notes, 
the  depreciated  notes  of  Kirtland's  miserable 
bank,  climbed  back  to  par,  went  still  higher. 
And  thus  it  happened  that,  to  the  great  scandal 
of  New  York  and  Philadelphia  brokers,  the 
prophecy  of  Joseph  Smith  affirming  that  the 
time  would  come  when  his  notes  would  be 
worth  more  than  gold,  was  realized. 

The  Lieutenant. — I  don't  see  how  these  de- 
tails, doubtless  very  interesting  from  a 
banker's  stand-point,  can  have  anything  to  do 
with  .  .  . 

The  Priest. — Yes,  they  have.  She  had  just 
reached  her  twentieth  year.  It  was  becoming 
rather  difficult  to  keep  her  in  the  convent 
much  longer,  without  her  taking  the  vows,  for 
which  it  must  be  admitted  she  did  not  seem 
to  be  in  the  least  suited.  Colonel  Lee  took 
advantage  of  a  short  visit  he  was  making  at 
that  time  in  Saint-Louis  to  marry  her. 

The  Lieutenant — To  marry  her! 

The  Priest. — She  was  twenty  years  old,  I 
repeat,  and  he  was  nearing  sixty.  It  was  I 
who  advised  him  to  marry  her. 

The  Lieutenant. — And  that  is  just  what  I 
find  monstrous!  Forty  years  of  difference! 

The  Priest. — Don't  use  those  forty  years  as 


SALTLAKE  67 

an  excuse!  Ah!  be  sincere!  Men  are  indeed 
all  alike.  They  cannot  forgive  a  woman  for 
not  having  foreseen  that  they  would  come 
some  day,  for  not  having  withheld  themselves 
until  then.  A  while  ago,  you  couldn't  for- 
give Mrs.  Lee  for  belonging  to  the  same  nation 
as  your  unfortunate  servant  Now  .  .  . 

The  Lieutenant. — Reproaches  of  that  sort 
cannot  hurt  me.  Americans  have  more  re- 
spect for  women's  rights  than  you,  Frenchman. 

The  Priest. — I  ignore  what  women's  rights 
are.  I  ignore  abstract  formulas.  I  am  only 
concerned  with  concrete  situations.  There- 
fore, here  is  what  that  of  Miss  O'Brien  was, 
around  1850:  an  orphan,  penniless,  with  an 
aged  guardian  as  her  only  protector, — ex- 
posed, upon  his  death,  to  all  the  troubles  in 
the  world  in  taking  possession  of  the  estate  he 
might  leave  her.  If  you  have  some  notion  of 
jurisprudence,  you  know  that  the  international 
law  regarding  private  property  is  something 
very  obscure.  Colonel  Lee's  wife  would  cer- 
tainly have  ten  times  less  trouble  to  inherit 
from  him  than  his  ward.  Those  are  the  con- 
siderations,— very  wordly,  I  grant  you, — 
which  guided  us,  I,  in  advising  that  union,  he, 
in  deciding  for  it. 


68  SALTLAKE 

The  Lieutenant. — Then  he  married  her. 

The  Priest. — Just  as  you  have  said.  The 
evening,  or  the  day  after  their  marriage,  he 
went  away  again.  Think  of  this,  he  had  to 
continue  to  amass,  for  sending  to  Ireland,  the 
savings  of  Jane's  forlorn  sisters.  In  1852,  he 
returned  to.  Utah,  and  Brigham  Young 
lavished  upon  him  palpable  evidences  of  his 
gratitude. 

The  Lieutenant. — Of  his  gratitude? 

The  Priest. — Haven't  I  told  you  that  it  was 
thanks  to  his  advice  that  Brigham  had  been 
able  to  turn  his  people  from  the  California 
venture?  Besides,  Colonel  Lee  was  one  of 
those  men  for  whom  it  is  a  veritable  pleasure 
to  lend  a  helping  hand.  His  personal  inter- 
ests never  ceased  coinciding  with  the  common 
good.  You  know  that  iron  ore  abounds  in 
certain  parts  of  Utah? 

The  Lieutenant. — In  Iron  County,  for  in- 
stance. 

The  Priest. — In  Iron  County,  precisely. 
There  it  yields  from  forty  to  sixty  per  cent, 
pure  iron.  A  joint-stock  company  was 
formed,  under  the  name  of  The  Desert  Iron 
Company,  with  a  concession  for  fifty  years. 
Its  blast-furnaces,  at  Cedar  City,  give  about 


SALT   LAKE  69 

three  tons  of  iron  a  day.  The  shares,  issued 
at  a  hundred  dollars,  are  worth  today  about 
five  hundred  and  forty.  Colonel  Lee  received 
one  hundred  shares  of  preferred  stock. 

The  Lieutenant. — Fifty  thousand  dollars. 
It  certainly  wasn't  a  bad  deal. 

The  Priest. — He  did  not  content  himself 
with  that.  The  territory  is  not  only  rich  in 
iron.  There  is  silver  and  lead  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Las  Vegas,  coal  in  several  coun- 
ties. Sulphur,  alum,  borax,  carbonate  of  soda 
and  saltpetre  are  all  common  enough.  I  call 
your  attention  to  the  rubies  and  garnets  of  the 
Humboldt  River  especially.  Well,  Colonel 
Lee  received  his  share  in  each  of  those  ex- 
ploitations. 

The  Lieutenant. — In  the  end,  all  that  must 
have  made  a  pretty  sum! 

The  Priest. — Yes,  but  unfortunately,  with 
many  complications.  Often,  in  the  evening, 
at  the  very  table  where  we  just  dined,  I  have 
seen  the  Colonel  become  angered,  while  go- 
ing over  his  accounts.  I  shuddered  when  I 
thought  of  the  difficulties  awaiting  him  the 
day  he  would  want  to  liquidate  everything  to 
return  to  Ireland,  as  he  threatened  constantly. 
I  shuddered  much  more  when  I  thought  of 


70  SALT   LAKE 

his  widow,  the  day  he  was  brought  back  here, 
smitten  down  by  a  fine  congestion,  with  the 
mercury  at  31°  below  zero.  I  must  tell  you 
that  he  had  taken  to  whiskey  and  that  the 
veins  of  his  temples  had  become  rigid  and 
more  brittle  than  vermicelli. 

The  Lieutenant. — Was  he  dead? 

The  Priest. — He  didn't  die  until  a  few 
hours  later.  He  had  the  time  and  the  un- 
believable energy  to  entrust  all  his  papers  to 
me  and  to  instruct  me  to  notify  his  wife.  "If 
you  can,"  he  said  to  me,  "try  to  arrange  every- 
thing yourself  so  that  she  won't  have  to  come 
to  Salt  Lake.  If  the  ridiculous  legal  red-tape 
between  American  magistrates  and  the  Mor- 
mons is- such  that  she  will  be  obliged  to  make 
the  journey,  help  her,  watch  over  her.  She 
must  not  stay  here  any  longer  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,  even  if  it  costs  her  half  her  fortune. 
She  will  still  have  enough.  She  must  go  back ! 
I  want  it  to  be  you  who  closes  the  door  of  the 
stage-coach  which  takes  her  away!"  You  can 
understand  that,  having  been  thus  entreated, 
I  shall  not  rest  until  I  have  closed  that  door. 

The  Lieutenant. — You  wrote  her  to  come, 
nevertheless. 

The  Priest. — I   wrote  to  her.     You  must 


SALT   LAKE  71 

understand  that  I  was  lost  in  the  midst  of  all 
those  figures,  out  of  which  I  could  make 
neither  head  nor  tail.  They  complained  to 
me  continually  about  the  absense  of  the  inter- 
ested party.  I  had  no  legal  power  of  attor- 
ney. I  wrote.  She  came. 

The  Lieutenant- — And  everything  was  ar- 
ranged? 

The  Priest. — To  the  best  of  her  interests. 
She  was  lucky.  To  begin  with,  Brigham 
Young  was  very  kind  to  her. 

The  Lieutenant. — It  was  the  least  he  could 
do,  when  you  consider  the  obligations  he  was 
under  to  Colonel  Lee. 

The  Priest. — Of  course,  of  course.  At  any 
rate,  he  was  very  kind,  it  is  undisputable. 
Likewise,  she  found  an  invaluable  influence 
over  the  Federal  Magistracy  in  the  person  of 
Judge  Sydney. 

The  Lieutenant. — Righteous  arguments 
cannot  fail)  to  touch  an  American  magis- 
trate. 

The  Priest. — Those  urged  by  Mrs.  Lee  ap- 
peared irresistible  to  this  one.  She  arrived  in 
Salt  Lake  in  April  of  last  year.  By  June, 
everything  had  been  settled,  and  on  very  fav- 
ourable terms,  I  repeat  She  could  have  set 


72  SALT    LAKE 

off   immediately   with    her    fortune,    if  .  .  . 

The  Lieutenant. — If? 

The  Priest. — If  everything  hadn't  been 
spoiled  just  then  between  the  Mormons  and 
the  government  of  the  Union.  I  will  not  go 
back  over  ground  you  are  paid  for  knowing 
better  than  I :  hostilities  declared,  the  fron- 
tiers closed,  all  thought  of  a  journey  impos- 
sible for  a  woman,  Mrs.  Lee  forced  to  remain 
here,  awaiting  better  days. 

The  Lieutenant. — They  have  come. 

The  Priest. — She  did  her  best  to  hasten  the 
event.  Independent,  Catholic,  European,  she 
was  not  an  object  of  suspicion  for  either  Mor- 
mons or  Americans.  This  villa  has  sheltered 
and  seen  the  growth  of  the  palm  of  peace. 
All  the  conciliators  have  been  afforded  a  ref- 
uge here, — Captain  Van  Vliet,  Colonel  Kane, 
the  Commissioners  Powel  and  MacCulloch, 
Governor  Cumming  himself.  If  this  ridic- 
ulous conflict  is  about  to  be  ended  without 
blood-shed,  it  is  owing  to  the  pleasant  hospi- 
tality of  this  lady.  Don't  you  believe  that  she 
acquired  thereby  some  title  to  the  gratitude 
evinced  to  her  this  evening  at  the  banquet  from 
which  she  will  soon  return  to  us?  Don't  you 
believe  that  she  acquired  some  right  to  the 


SALT   LAKE  73 

coach  and  wagons  which  carry  her  off  tomor- 
row night  to  the  Eastern  States,  her  and  her 
baggage? 

The  Lieutenant. — I  believe  it.  And  .  .  . 
won't  you  be  at  all  sorry  to  see  her  go? 

The  Priest- — I  would  not  object  to  smoking 
another  cigar. 

The  Lieutenant. — Here. 

The  Priest. — You  only  have  two  left.  I 
have  some  scruples. 

The  Lieutenant. — Take  it.  I  have  more 
than  two  hundred  in  my  luggage,  over  there, 
in  your  room. 

The  Priest.— Thank  you.  ...  If  I  shall 
be  sorry  to  see  her  go? 

The  Lieutenant. — The  purple  martin  has 
disappeared.  How  calm  it  is!  What  a 
beautiful  night! 

The  Priest. — He  lives  in  the  straw  roofing 
of  the  veranda.  What  time  is  it?  Eleven- 
thirty!  She  is  late,  I  am  beginning  to  be  anx- 
ious. 

The  Lieutenant. — There  will  have  been 
toasts.  Toasts  last  a  long  time.  We  might 
go  to  meet  her.  The  moon  has  risen.  One 
can  see  as  well  as  at  high  noon.  Is  that  Salt 
Lake,  that  brilliant  expanse  yonder,  under  the 


74  SALTLAKE 

moon,  between  columns  of  yellow  vapour? 

The  Priest.— That  is  Salt  Lake. 

The  Lieutenant. — What  a  white,  desolate 
waste,  beyond  the  black  line  of  the  trees! 
Ah  I  there  is  the  purple  martin  again! 

The  Priest. — He  has  awakened.  He  must 
have  heard  her  coming.  He  always  hears 
her,  I  told  you.  She  can't  be  very  far  away. 
Listen,  there  is  laughter,  voices,  steps  on  the 
road.  .  .  .  There  she  is! 

Before  the  garden  gate  there  was  an  ex- 
change of  gay  conversation  for  a  minute. 
The  door  grated  and  closed  and  then  the  voice 
of  Annabel  rang  out. 

"Is  it  you?" 

The  two   men,  standing,   remained  silent. 

"It  is  you,"  she  repeated.  "What  a  hostess 
I  make!  But  it  is  the  fault  of  the  American 
Army,  Lieutenant  Rutledge.  You  must  ex- 
cuse me!" 

They  followed  her  into  the  dining-room. 
The  purple  martin  was  no  longer  to  be  seen, 
but  they  heard  his  wings  whirring,  when  he 
passed  by  the  black  rectangle  of  the  open  door. 

Annabel  let  fall  her  voluminous  dark  cape. 
She  appeared  before  them,  bare-armed  and 


SALT   LAKE  75 

bare-throated.  She  wore  a  sulphur-coloured 
dress,  without  hoops,  but  with  enormous  pan- 
niers of  midnight-blue  taffeta  and  no  jewels 
other  than  a  necklace  and  bracelets  of  opals. 

Her  blond  curls  framed  her  diminutive 
countenance.  A  great  ostrich  fan,  fastened  to 
her  girdle  by  a  string  of  crystal  beads,  hung 
upon  her  skirt.  She  opened  it  and  fanned 
herself. 

"You  didn't  dine  too  badly,  did  you,  Lieu- 
tenant Rutledge?" 

She  smiled  as  she  gazed  at  him,  allowing 
her  heavy  grey  eyes  to  rest  in  his. 

As  in  the  morning,  he  blushed ;  he  grew  em- 
barrassed. 

"On  the  contrary,  very  well,  Madam." 

"Not  like  me,  then !  Those  gentlemen  did, 
of  course,  the  best  they  could.  But  a  dinner 
not  ordered  by  a  woman,  imagine!  Besides, 
the  Governor's  champagne  was  execrable. 
But  don't  go  and  tell  him  so,  will  you?  Mon 
Pere,  is  there  any  Catawba  left?" 

"I  confess,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "that  we  did  it 
justice,  without  thinking  of  you." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  empty  bottles. 

"I  am  thirsty,"  she  said.  "Coriolan!" 
And  she  struck  a  bell. 


76  SALT   LAKE 

The    negro    appeared,    rubbing   his    eyes. 

"Bring  us  two  bottles  of  Catawba!" 

He  made  to  go  out. 

"Wait,"  she  commanded,  "I  am  hungry, 
too.  We  talked  more  than  anything  else  at 
that  dinner.  Lieutenant  Rutledge,  do  you 
like  jelly  omelets?" 

"Do  I  like  jelly  omelets?"  said  Rutledge. 
"I  should  say  so!" 

"You  hear,  Coriolan,  you  are  going  to  make 


us  one." 


"A  jelly  omelet,  Missus!" 

"Yes.  What  is  the  matter,  don't  you  under- 
stand? Or  rather,  are  you  asleep?" 

"It  isn't  that,  Missus!  But  what  can  I 
make  it  with?" 

"Don't  you  know  what  is  required?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  Rose  and  I  packed  it 
tonight  in  a  big  box,  that  is  already  nailed 
up!" 

"Very  well,  unpack  it." 

"Unpack  it?" 

The  negro  looked  at  her  with  frightened 
eyes,  then  he  looked  at  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Do  as  your  mistress  tells  you,"  said  the 
Jesuit  simply. 

Coriolan  bowed   and,  before  leaving  the 


SALT   LAKE  77 

room,  placed  the  two  bottles  of  Catawba  wine 
on  the  table. 

The  priest  opened  one  of  them,  filled  the 
three  glasses. 

"You  don't  happen  to  have  another  cigar?" 
he  asked  the  lieutenant  just  then. 

"I  will  go  to  find  some  in  my  room,"  said 
the  lieutenant  with  alacrity. 

He  went  out.  In  the  outer  room  could  be 
heard  the  plaintive  squeaks  of  nails  which 
Coriolan  was  tearing  out  one  by  one. 

Annabel,  her  glass  raised,  was  watching  the 
effervescing  of  the  tiny  yellow  bubbles. 

The  Jesuit  came  to  her. 

"It  will  be  necessary  to  re-nail  that  box  to- 
morrow morning,  at  the  earliest  possible 
hour,"  he  said; 

She  replaced  her  glass  upon  the  table. 

"Why?" 

"Are  you  not  leaving  tomorrow  night?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  said. 

"May  I  ask  why  not?" 

"This  officer  is  my  guest.  It  is  rather  hard 
for  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "that  to- 
night you  were  supposed  to  ask  the  Governor 
to  billet  him  elsewhere?" 


78  SALT   LAKE 

"I  didn't  think  about  it,"  she  exclaimed. 
"Besides,  it  was  rather  awkward,  just  at  the 
moment  when  I  was  being  thanked  on  all 
sides  for  the  hospitality  I  have  been  able  to 
offer  the  Federal  officers.  Don't  you  agree 
with  me?" 

Pere  d'Exiles  smiled  ironically.  He  did 
not  answer. 

"Anyway,"  she  said  precipitately,  "I 
learned  that  the  departure  of  the  wagons  I 
was  to  use  has  been  delayed.  Two  days, 
three  days  perhaps.  But,"  she  added,  looking 
at  him  rather  bitterly,  "are  you  as  anxious  as 
that  to  see  me  go?" 

He  started,  but  mastered  himself  at  once 
and  gazed  into  her  eyes  with  his  calm  scru- 
tiny. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  lowered  her  head. 

At  that  instant,  Rutledge  re-entered. 

"Here  are  the  cigars.  ...  I  am  inter- 
rupting you.  .  .  ."  he  added,  suddenly  con- 
strained and  ill  at  ease. 

"Interrupting  us!"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  jo- 
vially. "You  are  joking.  Let  us  see  those 
cigars.  Admirable,  my  dear  sir,  admirable!" 


SALT   LAKE  79 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  other,  himself  once 
more. 

Coriolan  appeared,  bearing  a  silver  dish 
upon  which  blossomed,  gold  and  rosy,  a  re- 
splendent jelly-omelet.  Pere  Philippe  poured 
himself  a  glass  of  Catawba  and  emptied  it  at 
a  single  draught.  Then  he  arose. 

Annabel  threw  him  a  glance  of  interroga- 
tion. He  drew  out  his  watch  and  extended  it 
to  her. 

"Excuse  me.  Five  minutes  before  mid- 
night. I  say  mass  tomorrow  morning,  I 
must  not  forget.  In  five  minutes  that  wonder- 
ful omelet  will  be  forbidden  fruit  I  prefer 
not  to  lead  myself  into  temptation." 

And  he  left  them. 

His  new  room  faced  the  South.  He 
opened  the  window.  Salt  Lake  City  ex- 
tended, black  and  white,  beneath  the  moon. 
A  cool  breeze  came  from  the  mountains,  car- 
rying the  sound  of  waters,  the  perfume  of 
flowers. 

Pere  d'Exiles  stood  a  long  time  breathing 
the  fresh  air.  Passing  his  hand  across  his 


8o  SALT   LAKE 

bald  brow,  he  found  it  damp  with  perspi- 
ration. 

Nervously,  he  closed  the  window.  The 
room  was  shadowy.  Groping  about,  he 
found  his  bed,  where  mindful  of  the  slightest 
creaks  in  the  timbers,  he  sought,  for  long 
hours,  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  III 


r  iHE  next  day,  which  fell  on  Sunday, 

was  an  extremely  busy  one  for  Pere 
M         d'Exiles. 

He  had  not  slept  until  late,  very  late,  at  the 
moment  when  the  faint  glimmer  of  dawn  was 
beginning  to  flicker  about  his  room.  When 
he  awoke,  suddenly,  it  was  already  seven 
o'clock.  The  light  striped  the  dark  blinds 
with  gold.  He  pushed  the  shutters  open. 
The  morning  sunlight,  fresh  and  charming, 
danced  on  the  garden.  Spiders  had  woven 
their  pearly  octagons  upon  the  walks.  Great 
flies  were  coming  and  going,  like  balls  of  pol- 
ished copper,  darting  about  at  random.  Be- 
neath the  blue  sky,  the  foliage  was  a  beauti- 
ful, waxy  green,  with  an  unaccustomed  gloss. 

The  Jesuit  went  out  on  the  veranda.  He 
said  Mass  there  on  Sundays,  in  the  presence  of 
Annabel  and  the  servants.  When  he  came 
out,  robed  in  his  priestly  vestments,  the  two 
negroes  were  there,  Coriolan  prepared  to  as- 

81 


82  SALT   LAKE 

sist  him,  Rose  kneeling  already.  But  the  blue 
velvet  prayer-bench  belonging  to  their  mis- 
tress was  unoccupied. 

"Wasn't  that  packed?"  questioned  the  Jes- 
uit, pointing  to  the  bench. 

"Yes,  Father.  But  it  was  in  one  of  the 
boxes  that  Missus  had  unpacked  last  night." 

Pere  d'Exiles  said  nothing.  Eight  o'clock 
chimed  in  two  different  rooms  of  the  villa. 
Ah!  the  clocks,  too,  had  been  restored  to  their 
places! 

Ordinarily,  the  Jesuit  waited,  kneeling  at 
prayer,  until  a  rustle  of  skirts  announced 
Annabel's  arrival,  always  late.  This  time,  he 
began  Mass  immediately. 

It  was  not  until  the  first  Dominus  Vobiscum 
that  he  realized  that,  in  spite  of  all,  she  had 
come.  Turning  around,  he  perceived  her, 
with  her  forehead  bent  upon  the  elbow-rest,  a 
soft  silhouette  misty  in  her  morning  muslins. 
She  was  still  there  at  the  Benediction.  She 
was  there  no  longer  when  he  left  the  altar, 
after  the  final  orisons. 

He  was  relieved.  It  would  have  been  un- 
bearable to  have  to  speak  to  her. 

He  breakfasted  rapidly,  alone;  then  he 
called  Coriolan. 


SALT   LAKE  83 

"I  am  going  out,"  he  said.  "I  shall  return 
at  half  past  eleven." 

"And  if  I  am  asked  where  the  abbe  is?" 

"At  the  American  camp,  seeing  whether 
there  are  any  Catholic  soldiers  who  need  me." 

He  crossed  the  town.  Salt  Lake  City  was 
still  deserted.  Less  so  than  the  day  before, 
however.  There  were  few  people  to  be  met 
in  the  streets,  but  in  many  of  the  houses,  the 
shutters  were  already  unbarred.  A  consid- 
erable number  of  Mormons  must  have  re- 
gained their  dwellings  during  the  night,  con- 
fident in  the  promise  made  to  Brigham  that 
they  would  not  suffer  from  the  promiscuous- 
ness  of  Federal  soldiers. 

The  promise  had  been  kept.  Inside  the 
sacred  walls,  Pere  Philippe  came  upon  two 
officers,  but  he  did  not  see  a  single  trooper. 
The  officers  were  on  their  way  to  report  to 
Governor  Cumming.  They  were  the  first  to 
salute  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Is  it  true  that  the  American  camp  is  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Jordan,  gentlemen?"  the  Jes- 
uit asked  of  them. 

"Yes,  sir,  just  across." 

"I  thank  you." 

Continuing    his    south-westerly    direction, 


84  SALT   LAKE 

Pere  d'Exiles  soon  reached  the  stream.  It 
flowed  between  tall  clumps  of  silver-green 
loosestrife.  Its  west  bank  swarmed  with  sol- 
diers doing  their  laundry  or  bathing. 

On  the  bridge,  where  a  guard  had  been  es- 
tablished, the  sentinal  halted  the  priest. 

"Who  do  you  want?" 

"Captain  Van  Vliet,  orderly  officer  to  the 
Commander-in-Chief." 

He  was  allowed  to  pass,  but  as  he  was  given 
no  guide,  he  was  forced  to  wander  about  the 
camp. 

Before  a  row  of  wagons,  he  stopped.  A 
non-commissioned  officer  was  inspecting  the 
mule  harness  and  testing  the  axle-trees  with  a 
hammer. 

"Are  those,  by  chance,  the  wagons  which 
are  going  back  tonight?" 

"Yes,"  responded  the  sergeant. 

Stabbed  to  the  heart,  Pere  d'Exiles  con- 
tinued upon  his  way.  So  Annabel  had  lied  to 
him.  An  American  convoy  was  leaving  Salt 
Lake  that  very  night!  Without  herl  Why? 

The  soldiers'  tents,  disposed  in  a  horse-shoe 
curve,  backed  down  to  the  Jordan.  In  front 
of  them,  were  the  officers'  tents,  forming  a 


SALT   LAKE  85 

smaller  horse-shoe.  Pere  d'Exiles  walked 
towards  them. 

One  tent  dominated  the  others,  superior  in 
dimensions  and  comfort.  To  it  he  directed 
his  steps.  Once  more,  he  was  halted. 

"Who  do  you  want?" 

"Captain  Van  Vliet." 

"He's  with  General  Johnston." 

"Will  you  tell  him  that  Father  d'Exiles 
would  like  to  speak  with  him?" 

The  orderly  hesitated.  A  young  lieuten- 
ant intervened,  signed  to  the  Jesuit  to  wait  and 
went  into  the  tent. 

He  came  out  again,   almost  immediately. 

"Will  you  follow  me,  sir?" 

General  Johnston  was  alone  with  Captain 
Van  Vliet.  The  future  Commander-in-Chief 
of  the  Grand  (Confederate)  Army  of  the 
Potomac  came  forward  to  meet  Pere  d'Exiles. 
By  the  manner  of  his  reception,  the  priest 
realized  that,  at  the  banquet,  the  night  before, 
Annabel  had  spoken  of  him. 

"Be  seated,  sir,"  said  General  Johnston 
cordially.  "That  exquisite  Mrs.  Lee,  last 
night,  sang  your  praises  tirelessly.  It  was, 
however,  quite  superfluous.  All  good  Amer- 


86  SALT   LAKE 

icans  know  the  part  you  played  in  the  denun- 
ciation of  Captain  Gunnison's  assassins." 

A  more  odious  recollection  could  not  have 
been  forced  upon  Pere  d'Exiles.  He  lowered 
his  head  without  answering. 

"Mrs.  Lee  is  going  to  leave  us,"  said  the 
General.  "We  are  all  very  regretful.  But 
we  understand  easily  why  she  prefers  the 
Eastern  States  to  this  abominable  country." 

"A  convoy  is  leaving  tonight,"  said  the 
Jesuit. 

"A  convoy  leaves  tonight.  Another  in 
eight  days,  next  Sunday,  to  be  exact.  She  can 
have  the  use  of  the  one  or  the  other,  notwith- 
standing, I  repeat,  that  we  dislike  to  see  her 
go." 

Pere  Philippe  made  bold. 

"It  would  be  very  hard  for  her  to  leave  this 
evening.  They  have  billeted  one  of  your 
officers  at  her  house." 

"Billeted  an  officer  at  her  house!"  and  the 
General's  voice  was  wrathful.  "How  stupid! 
But  I  knew  nothing  about  it,  my  dear  sir.  I 
beg  you  to  assure  her.  Why  didn't  she  say 
something  to  me  about  it,  last  night?" 

"Perhaps  she  did  not  dare,"  murmured  the 
Jesuit. 


SALT   LAKE  87 

"Does  she  want  to  have  him  lodged  else- 
where?" 

And  the  General's  pencil  poised  above  a 
sheet  of  white  paper,  ready  to  write  the  com- 
mand. 

The  Jesuit's  eyelids  fluttered.  His  debate 
of  the  day  before,  his  debate  upon  the  truth 
with  Lieutenant  Rutledge,  surged  into  his 
memory. 

"Does  she  want  that?"  repeated  General 
Johnston. 

Pere  d'Exiles  dared  not  answer  yes.  He 
spent  what  days  were  left  him  to  live  regret- 
ting it. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  think 
she  wants  to  crown  her  work  by  providing 
shelter  for  that  officer  until  the  day  the  Army 
leaves  Salt  Lake." 

Captain  Van  Vliet  looked  at  his  chief. 

"Now,  sir,  had  I  exaggerated  about 
her?" 

"Charming  creature!"  exclaimed  the  Gen- 
eral. "Will  you  tell  her,  sir,  will  you  tell  her, 
better  than  I  myself  knew  how  to,  the  sum  of 
gratitude  owed  to  her  by  the  army  I  command, 
more  yet,  by  the  Government  of  the  Union? 
Will  you  tell  her?  ... 


88  SALT   LAKE 

Thus  speaking,  he  noticed  the  sorrowful 
eyes  of  Pere  d'Exiles.  His  enthusiasm  was 
dampened. 

"But  you  yourself,"  said  he,  "you  have  come 
here.  Perhaps  I  can  do  something  for  you? 
You  have  only  to  speak." 

"How  long  to  you  expect  to  remain  in  Salt 
Lake,  General?" 

"How  long?  Oh!  a  very  short  time. 
Eight  days,  perhaps.  We  are  seeking  a  suit- 
able locality  for  establishing  a  permanent 
army-post." 

He  repeated. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"I  am  a  Catholic  priest,  General,"  said 
Pere  d'Exiles.  "I  would  like  to  know  if  I 
have  any  fellow-believers  here." 

"You  have,"  answered  Johnston.  "Van 
Vliet?" 

The  officer,  thus  summoned,  examined  his 
orderly  books. 

"There  are  eleven  Frenchmen  in  all  in  the 
Expeditionary  Forces,"  said  he.  "A  cavalry- 
man in  the  Second  Dragoons,  two  cannoneers 
in  the  Seventh  Artillery,  three  infantrymen 
in  the  Fifth  and  Tenth  Regiments  and  five 
wagoners." 


SALTLAKE  89 

"Could  some  one  take  me  to  them?"  asked 
the  Jesuit. 

"Why,  of  course!"  said  the  General.  "Van 
Vlietl" 

"Chances  are  we  will  find  them  together," 
said  the  Captain.  "They  assemble  to  drink, 
to  play  cards  and  above  all  to  argue.  For, 
I  warn  you,  my  dear  sir,  they  are  hot-headed 
individuals." 

"Take  me  to  them,"  said  the  Jesuit,  smiling. 

And  he  went  out,  after  shaking  the  hand  ex- 
tended to  him  by  the  General-in-Chief. 

Under  a  tent,  the  flaps  of  which  were  raised 
to  allow  ventilation,  eight  of  the  Frenchmen 
were  indulging  in  a  game  of  cards.  Four 
were  playing.  Four  looked  on. 

"Hello!"  said  one  of  the  players.  "A  sky- 
pilot!" 

But,  seeing  Captain  Van  Vliet,  he  said  no 
more. 

In  a  few  words,  dry  and  to  the  point,  the 
officer  introduced  the  Jesuit. 

"Leave  me  with  them,  if  you  will,  sir," 
said  Pere  d'Exiles  gently. 

Van  Vliet  bowed  and  disappeared. 

"I,  too,  am  French,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  to 
the  players. 


90  SALT    LAKE 

They  stared  at  him  without  answering,  seek- 
ing counsel  of  each  other  with  furtive  glances. 
Finally  he  who  had  said  "a  sky-pilot"  burst 
into  laughter. 

"You  are  French?  What  of  it?  What  the 
hell  do  you  think  we  care?" 

He  was  dressed  like  the  others  and  wore  a 
faded  chechia  1  the  blue  tassel  of  which  danced 
upon  his  back. 

"You  are  French?  What  of  it?  If  we're 
here,  you  can  bet  your  boots  we  don't  give  a 
damn  about  France." 

The  others  laughed  with  a  timorous  con- 
descension. 

"To  begin  with,  where  were  you,  the 
twenty-fifth  of  June,  1848?" 

"I  was  here,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"Ah  1  you  were  here !  Were  you  ?  Well,  / 
was  on  the  Place  de  la  Bastille.  I  soaked  my 
handkerchief  in  the  blood  of  your  comrade 
Afire.  I  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting  with 
Caussidiere  and  Louis  Blanc." 

"Caussidiere  and  Louis  Blanc  escaped," 
said  the  Jesuit. 

"Escaped?    What  are  you  talking  about?" 

1  The  head  gear  of  the  French  zouaves,  a  Turkish  fez. 


SALT   LAKE  91 

"I  say  that  they  escaped,  while  the  unfortu- 
nates whom  they  had  incited  to  revolt 
were  deported  to  Algeria,"  said  the  priest 
calmly. 

"So!"  exclaimed  the  other,  swallowing  his 

rage.  "And  the  Second  of  December,  where 
were  you?" 

"Still  here,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Here!  Well,  I,  I  was  on  the  barricades 
with  Victor  Hugo!" 

"Victor  Hugo  was  never  on  the  barricades," 
said  Pere  d'Exiles  with  a  smile. 

"Was  never  on  the  barricades,  Victor 
Hugo?  Wait  a  minute !" 

"Monseigneur  Afire  was  there,"  continued 
the  priest,  while,  having  seized  his  questioner's 
threatening  arm,  he  forced  him  to  sit  down 
again  with  his  comrades,  before  the  upturned 
cards. 

The  other  was  frothing  at  the  mouth. 

"Bigot!  'hypocrite!     Canting  bigot!  .  .  ." 

"I  leave  you,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  haughty 
and  sorrowful.  "If  any  one  of  you  has  need 
of  me,  he  has  only  to  have  me  called.  He 
should  apply  to  Captain  Van  Vliet.  I  will 


come." 


And  he  withdrew  slowly,  while  the  revolu- 


92  SALT   LAKE 

tionary   zouave    pursued    him    with    insults. 

Having  cleared  the  confines  of  the  camp, 
he  followed  along  the  Jordan  and  halted  in  a 
deserted  spot,  where  he  knew  he  could  be  seen 
no  longer.  There,  leaning  his  fore-head 
against  a  tree-trunk,  he  remained  motionless 
for  a  moment.  Soon,  he  turned  away  from 
the  tree.  The  murmuring  waters  soothed  him 
and,  even  more,  nearer  him,  all  around,  the 
intense  activity  of  insects.  Ah!  dear  crea- 
tures! You  have  not  yet  a  place  on  the 
world's  Rolil  of  Honour,  the  place  you  de 
serve.  Trout  darted  about  in  the  current, 
after  drowned  grasshoppers.  Pike,  green 
blue,  floated  about.  Muskrats,  emerging 
from  ancient,  rotted  stumps,  came  out  on  the 
grassy  banks,  their  moustaches,  like  those  of 
black  rabbits,  twitching.  They  sat  upon  their 
tiny  haunches,  they  looked  at  the  priest,  who 
looked  at  them. 

"Oh!  brother  of  the  greatest  of  all  saints," 
they  were  saying  to  him,  "is  it  not  true  that 
we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  you?  Ah! 
You  would  not  be  much  happier  if  you  had 
our  poor  black  hides,  mangled  and  bleeding, 
at  your  feet,  crushed  by  your  heel.  We 


SALT   LAKE  93 

come  to  you.  We  only  gnaw  upon  old, 
useless  things.  We  never  bite,  unless  we 
are  frightened.  Ah!  if  men  could  say  as 
much!" 

Partridges  crept  among  the  stems  of  per- 
fumed worm-wood,  their  heavy  tail-feathers 
trailing  down  the  grass,  which  raised  itself 
the  instant  after.  Emerald  dragon-flies 
hovered  over  the  arborescent  rock-roses; 
and,  just  above  Pere  d'Exiles,  imprisoned  net- 
like,  in  the  feathery  branches  of  a  willow, 
were  two  turtle-doves,  billing  and  cooing. 

Taking  infinite  precautions  not  to  frighten 
this  beloved  little  universe,  Pere  Philippe  sat 
down  upon  a  stone.  The  water  and  the  insects 
sang.  For  a  few  minutes,  he  sent  his  bruised 
thoughts  adrift  with  them. 

He  allowed  them  to  wander  at  the  will  of 
the  murmuring  stream,  then,  occasionally,  like 
a  fisherman  who,  by  a  sudden  jerk,  recalls  his 
float  ventured  too  far,  he  brought  them  back 
to  him. 

What  was  he  thinking  about?  What  mat- 
ters! And  to  what  end  does  it  serve  to  vio- 
late the  sacred  mystery  of  the  soul,  to  dissect 
it,  to  lay  out  each  spring  separately,  as  we 
used  to  lay  out  each  part  of  the  rifle,  Model 


94  SALT   LAKE 

1886,  improved  in  1893,  upon  the  instruction 
handkerchief  for  an  inspection.  Is  it  not 
more  worth  while  to  apply  oneself  to  discover- 
ing the  effectiveness  of  a  gun  which  has  not 
been  dismounted  and  to  observe  at  first  hand 
where  its  bullet  goes,  without  all  that  luxury 
of  analysis? 

Before  Pere  d'Exiles  flowed  the  Jordan, 
slow,  calm,  green.  It  was  impossible  to  look 
upon  its  tranquil,  limpid  waters  without  shud- 
dering in  picturing  the  awful  briny  gulf  which 
is  Salt  Lake,  where,  less  than  three  leagues 
away,  they  were  swallowed  up. 

From  the  beetles  crawling  in  the  moss  to 
the  little  birds  singing  above,  wandered  the 
eyes  of  Pere  d'Exiles.  Suddenly,  he  started 
in  amazement. 

On  a  flat  stone  at  his  side,  there  was  a  book, 
a  book  bound  with  a  cover  of  grey  lustring. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed. 

And  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  read  the  title  of 
the  volume,  which  he  had  opened. 

The  Farewell  of  Adolphe  Monod  to  His 
Friends  and  to  the  Church.  October  l8$$  to 
March  1856. 

At  falling  upon  that  tract  in  the  heart  of 
the  Far  West,  on  the  hundred  and  fifteenth 


SALT   LAKE  95 

degree  of  longitude,  the  Jesuit  manifested  as 
much  surprise  as  he  would  have  upon  dis- 
covering a  fair  argument  in  Les  Provinciales. 

He  read  at  random: 

"Do  you  not  feel  that  all  that  I  experience  is 
calculated  to  diffuse  a  spirit  of  peace,  of  seren- 
ity among  those  about  me,  in  my  family  in 
particular  and  that  our  house,  in  less  imper- 
fect terms  than  hitherto,  is  a  house  of  prayer, 
where  the  Name  of  God  is  constantly  invoked, 
as  It  is  constantly  invoked  upon  us?" 

The  Jesuit  laid  down  the  book  and  rubbed 
his  hands. 

"So?"  he  murmured.  "This  would  tend  to 
prove  that  the  negation  of  the  utility  of  works 
is  not  so  very  far  from  a  certain  pharisiacal 
taint.  And  to  think  that  such  are  the  wander- 
ings of  that  simpleton  who  overwhelmed 
Amiel,  Pressense  and  that  worthy  Agenor  de 
Gasparin  with  admiration!  Let  us  go  a  little 
farther,  however.  I  have  no  reason,  in  this 
my  present  condition,  not  to  be  impartial." 

And  he  pursued: 

"O  marvel  of  the  Grace  of  God!  O  power 
of  the  Gospel!  O  bitterness  of  Sin!  O  im- 
mutable steadfastness  of  Grace!  Let  us  battle 
with  Sin,  my  friends,  it  is  the  ..." 


96  SALT   LAKE 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  if  you  please,  but 
you  are  sitting  on  my  clothes." 

Pere  d'Exiles  started. 

A  man  had  risen  before  him,  a  naked  man, 
or  just  about  naked.  About  his  loins  was  a 
handkerchief  which  the  current  had  twisted 
into  a  cord.  He  eked  out  this  insufficiency  of 
attire  by  modestly  spreading  his  two  hands 
fan-wise. 

He  repeated: 

"You  are  sitting  on  my  clothes." 

"To  be  sure,  it  is  true,  sir!"  exclaimed  Pere 
d'Exiles,  as  he  arose.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
hadn't  noticed  it." 

They  continued  in  this  manner  to  stare  at 
each  other,  the  naked  man  very  dignified  and 
somewhat  annoyed,  the  Jesuit  a  prey  to  a 
strong  desire  to  laugh. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  I  seen  this  indi- 
vidual before?"  he  asked  of  himself. 

The  bather  introduced  himself  ceremoni- 
ously: 

"The  Reverend  Jemini  Gwinett,  of  Balti- 


more." 


"Ah!  so  that's  it!"  murmured  the  priest. 
"I  have  it!  One  of  the  preachers  in  the  caval- 
cade of  yesterday  morn !" 


SALT   LAKE  97 

And  not  to  be  outdone  in  politeness,  strug- 
gling all  the  while  to  keep  his  countenance: 

"Father  Philippe  d'Exiles,"  he  said,  "of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Jesus.  Here  are  your  clothes, 


sir." 


The  other  seized  them  pell-mell,  bowed  and 
bolted  behind  a  screen  of  bushes.  He  re- 
turned shortly,  clothed  and  formal. 

"You  will  forgive  me,  sir,  for  having  ap- 
peared before  you  in  a  costume  so  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  priest.  "A  good 
swim,  in  such  weather.  .  .  .  But  this  book 
must  belong  to  you?" 

And  he  handed  him  Les  Adieux  d'Adolphe 
Monod. 

"It  belongs  to  me,  indeed,"  said  the  clergy- 
man. "A  very  fine  book,  sir." 

"I  knew  Adolphe  Monod  at  Montauban," 
said  Pece  d'Exiles,  "at  the  time  when  he 
taught  Ethics  in  the  Faculty  of  Protestant 
Theology.  He  was  a  talented  man,"  he  added 
politely. 

"A  very  talented  man,"  emphasized  the 
preacher. 

"Are  you  interested  in  his  works?" 

"Not  exactly  for  their  own  merits.  Per- 
haps you  have  heard  of  Emerson?" 


98  SALT   LAKE 

"I  have,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"I  am  studying  Emerson's  influence  upon 
the  writers  of  the  Reformed  Churches  of 
Europe,"  said  Gwinett,  carelessly. 

"As  a  regimental  chaplain,  you  must  experi- 
ence innumerable  difficulties  in  doing  justice 
to  an  undertaking  of  such  magnitude,"  said 
Pere  Philippe.  "It  seems  to  me,  indeed,  sir, 
that  I  noticed  you  yesterday,  in  the  parade  of 
the  American  troops.  You  must  experience, 
I  repeat,  many  difficulties.  .  .  ." 

"No  one  knows  it  better  than  I !"  cried  the 
other  bitterly. 

"Well,  well!"  thought  the  Jesuit.  "Here's 
one  who  is  soured  on  life!" 

He  gazed  at  his  interlocutor  more  atten- 
tively. He  saw  a  man  of  about  thirty  years, 
dark,  rather  handsome,  with  small  features, 
an  olive  skin  and  intense,  wilful  eyes.  His 
voice  was  deep,  affected  and  effective.  It  was 
evident  that  the  clergyman  liked  to  listen  to 
himself  talk. 

"Melanchton!"  murmured  Pere  d'Ex- 
iles. 

He  wished  to  appear  interested,  although, 

to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  already  prodigiously 
bored.     He  repeated : 


SALT   LAKE  99 

"You  must  experience  a  great  many  difficul- 
ties!" 

"You  appear  to  be  a  person  of  some  distinc- 
tion," condescended  the  preacher.  "You  must 
know,  then,  that  men  like  us,  in  our  position, 
do  not  always  find  their  spiritual  superiors  as 
accommodating  as  they  might  expect." 

"Yes,  that  does  happen,"  said  the  Jesuit 
evasively. 

"It  happened  to  me,  sir.  A  misunderstand- 
ing with  the  head  of  the  Methodist  Church  in 
Baltimore.  From  a  doctrinal  standpoint,  a 
trifle,  I  daresay.  None  the  less,  here  am  I,  by 
compulsion.  What  do  you  make  of  such  pro- 
ceedings?" 

"They  are  most  regrettable,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  other.  "Simi- 
larly, you,  doubtless  .  .  .  ' 

"I  am  here  of  my  own  free  will,"  inter- 
rupted the  Jesuit. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Gwinett,  incredulously. 

"Console  yourself,  at  any  rate,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles.  "There  is  as  much  good  to  be  done 
working  here  with  your  soldiers  and  my  Indi- 
ans as  there  is  in  hair-splitting  on  a  univer- 
sity." 


ioo  SALT   LAKE 

"You  forget  that  we  do  not  believe  in  the 
power  of  good  works,"  stated  Gwinett  dryly. 
"And  then,  every  one  according  to  his  ability. 
It  would  really  not  be  worth  the  trouble  to 
have  learned  what  I  have  learned,  what  you 
have  learned,  no  doubt,  to  .  .  .  ' 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  with 
gravity,  "you  have  probably  heard  of  the 
founder  of  the  Order  to  which  I  belong,  whom 
the  Catholic  Church  holds  in  veneration  under 
the  name  of  Saint  Ignatius.  When  there  was 
talk  of  sending  an  evangelist  to  the  wretched 
heathen,  Ignatius  did  not  select  from  among 
his  most  obscure  disciples,  although  one  of 
them  might  have  achieved  just  as  fine  results. 
He  sent  abroad  the  wisest  among  the  first  fol- 
lowers of  the  new  order,  Saint  Francis  Xa- 


vier." 


The  preacher  smiled. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,  my  dear  sir.  How- 
ever, permit  me  to  complete  your  recollec- 
tions. Ignatius  of  Loyola  had  begun  by  se- 
lecting the  most  unlearned  of  his  disciples, 
Bobadilla,  for  that  task.  An  attack  of  rheu- 
matism prevented  the  chosen  missionary  from 
setting  off.  It  was  then,  and  then  only,  that 
Ignatius,  much  against  his  will,  resigned  him- 


SALT   LAKE  101 

self  to  the  appointment  of  Francis  Xavier  to 
Mozambique,  Goa  and  the  Indies." 

Once  again,  Pere  Philippe  looked  at  the 
preacher.  He,  in  turn,  lowered  his  eyes  with 
complacent  modesty. 

"He  is  altogether  odious,"  said  the  priest 
to  himself.  "But  he  beat  me  on  my  own 
ground." 

And,  aloud,  not  without  a  glint  of  humour: 

"You  are  right,  sir.  With  your  learning, 
you  have  no  business  in  Utah  garrisons." 

He  added,  desirous  of  taking  his  leave: 

"You  are  returning  to  the  camp,  are  you 
not?" 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  "I  am  going  to 
town." 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  the  Jesuit  without  much 
enthusiasm.  "Well,  then,  we'll  go  together." 

They  walked  along  for  a  short  while  with- 
out exchanging  a  word.  It  became  more  and 
more  evident  to  Pere  d'Exiles  that  his  com- 
panion burned  to  ask  him  a  question.  The 
Jesuit  emphasized  his  apparent  indifference. 

At  last,  Gwinett  could  keep  it  no  longer. 
As  they  passed  the  wall  of  Salt  Lake  City: 

"Have  you  been  in  this  part  of  the  country 
for  a  long  time,  sir?"  he  asked. 


102  SALT   LAKE 

'"It  will  soon  be  fourteen  years,  if  you 
would  like  to  know." 

"Then  you  may  be  able  to  give  me  some 
information  that  I  would  like  to  have." 

"Proceed." 

The  clergyman  opened  Les  Adieux  d'Adol- 
phe  Monod.  He  drew  out  a  yellow  paper, 
folded  in  four,  which  he  extended  to  his  inter- 
locutor : 

"Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  glance  over  this?" 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "it  is 
a  billeting  order.  Yesterday  I  had  one  just 
like  it  in  my  hands.  Oh!"  he  exclaimed 
after  reading  it,  "so  you  are  billeted  at  Rigdon 
Pratt's!" 

"Do  you  know  this  Rigdon  Pratt?" 

"Who  doesn't  know  Rigdon  Pratt  in  Salt 
Lake  City?  He  is  a  bishop  and  an  influential 
member  of  the  Church  of  Latter-Day  Saints. 
In  addition,  these  days,  he  is  secretary  to  the 
cantonment  commission  of  the  American 
troops.  I  perceive  with  pleasure  that,  al- 
though a  high  official,  he  has  not  profited  by 
his  rank  to  free  himself  from  obligations  that 
he  is  instructed  to  impose  on  others.  But  I 
thought  that  the  terms  of  the  treaty  excluded 
the  Americans  from  Salt  Lake?" 


SALT   LAKE  103 

"Exception  was  made  for  the  Army  Chap- 
lains," said  Gwinett  bitterly.  "Another  trick 
of  Governor  Cumming's!  That  man  is  sold 
out  to  Brigham  Young.  He  has  planned  for 
us  to  live  with  the  Mormon  families,  so  that 
afterward  we  can  testify  to  the  perfect  purity 
of  his  proteges'  morals.  But  this  is  not  the 
time  to  complain.  You  told  me  you  were  ac- 
quainted with  Rigdon  Pratt.  They  brought 
my  canteen  to  his  house.  Can  you  point  it  out 
to  me?" 

"The  street  we  are  following  will  take  us 
there,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "I  will  leave  you 
there  when  we  come  to  it." 

"Is  it  a  house  .  .  .  well  ...  a  house  .  .  ." 

"A  house?" 

"Well,  yes,  a  house  where  a  young  ecclesias- 
tic may  live  with  no  harmful  results  to  him- 
self?" 

"I  believe  I  understand  you,  sir,"  said  the 
Jesuit,  "but  we  carry  those  dangers  to  our- 
selves within  us.  For  my  part,  if  the  neces- 
sity should  arise,  I  would  just  as  soon  live  at 
Rigdon  Pratt's,  and  without  the  slightest  fear, 
I  assure  you." 

"Nevertheless,  he  must  practise  polygamy," 
said  the  preacher. 


104  SALT   LAKE 

"He  is  a  Mormon,"  replied  the  Jesuit. 
"That  is  as  much  as  saying  he  has  several 


wives." 


"Only  five,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "He  is  not 
among  the  most  fortunate.  He  has  had  six. 
But  his  first  wife  died  last  year.  I  knew  her 
quite  well.  I  even  taught  her  to  play  piquet." 

"Abjection!"  cried  Gwinett.  "And  it  is 
there  that  I  have  to  live!  Meanwhile,  good- 
for-nothing  young  lieutenants  are  billeted  out- 
side of  this  Gomorrha  in  nice,  respectable 
houses!" 

The  Jesuit  started.  Could  he  have  met  an 
ally? 

"True  enough,"  he  said,  making  an  effort 
to  assume  indifference.  "That  is  why  the 
villa  that  I  have  the  honour  to  live  in  has  shel- 
tered a  lieutenant  of  the  Federal  Army  since 
yesterday.  I  can't  help  thinking  that  it 
would  be  a  much  more  suitable  place  for 
you." 

"So  you  agree  with  me?"  cried  the  clergy- 
man. "What  is  this  officer's  name?" 

At  the  end  of  the  street,  the  roof  of  Rigdon 
Pratt's  domicile  showed  through  the  trees. 
Pere  d'Exiles  slackened  his  steps.  The  con- 
versation was  becoming  too  interesting.  The 


SALT   LAKE  105 

green  gateway  must  not  be  reached  before 
hitting  upon  a  practical  solution.  He  visual- 
ized the  rough  outlines  of  his  scheme.  He 
smiled.  His  expression  brightened  with 
pleased  cunning. 

"What  is  his  name?  Rutledge,  Lieuten- 
ant Rutledge,  of  the  Second  Dragoons." 

"Rutledge!"  exclaimed  the  minister.  "I 
should  say  I  know  him!  He  is  a  member  of 
my  church.  When  the  regiment  left,  his 
mother  commended  him  to  my  care,  so  that 
during  the  campaign  he  would  not  treat  his 
religious  obligations  too  lightly." 

"And  have  you  had  any  occasion  to  com- 
plain of  him  in  that  respect?" 

"To  complain  of  him?  On  the  contrary 
.  .  .  he  is  a  true  believer.  At  a  sign  from  me, 
he  would  disappear  into  the  earth." 

"Better  and  better,"  thought  the  Jesuit. 
"Well,  then,  it  would  be  easy  for  you  to  ask 
him  to  change  places.  I  don't  suppose  he 
would  refuse  you." 

"No,  certainly  not,  but  .  .  ." 

"As  far  as  comfort  is  concerned,"  continued 
the  tempter,  "you  would  be  much  better  off 
with  Mrs.  Lee,  my  hostess,  than  at  that  infidel 
of  Rigdon  Pratt's.  For  my  part,  the  pleas- 


106  SALTLAKE 

ure  I  shall  take  in  discussing  Emerson  with 
you  .  .  ." 

"Very  kind  of  you,"  said  Gwinett,  "but  the 
exchange  is  impossible.  You  know  quite  well 
that  the  covenant  forbids  the  billeting  of  an 
American  officer  with  the  Mormons.  Rut- 
ledge  cannot  be  taken  in  my  place  at  Rigdon 
Pratt's." 

"Well,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "he  will  go  to  camp. 
General  Johnston  himself  is  comfortably  in- 
stalled there,  under  a  tent." 

"It's  true,"  assented  the  preacher. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "I 
don't  wish  to  be  indiscreet  and  appear  to  force 
your  decision.  But  I  am  in  good  enough 
terms  with  Mrs.  Lee  to  take  it  upon  myself  to 
invite  you  to  lunch  at  her  house  tomorrow. 
She  will  be  very  pleased.  Although  she  is  a 
Catholic,  she  likes  the  society  of  all  cultured 
people.  There  you  will  meet  Lieutenant 
Rutledge  once  again.  And,  from  now  until 
then,  you  will  have  come  in  contact  with  Rig- 
don Pratt  and  you  will  know  if  it  is  possible 
for  you  to  live  any  longer  in  the  midst  of  his 
harem." 

"I  accept.     I  accept  with  gratitude,"  said 


SALTLAKE  107 

Gwinett.     "Won't  this  Mrs.  Lee  find  me  very 
bold?" 

"I  tell  you  she  will  be  delighted,  enchanted. 
Then  it's  understood,  until  tomorrow,  at 
noon.  Any  one  will  show  you  her  villa.  A u 
revoirj  mon  cher  collegue." 

Gwinett's  hand  was  already  upon  the  bell 
of  the  gate. 

"And  give  my  regards  to  Sarah  Pratt,  Rig- 
don's  oldest  daughter.  If  you  are  not  armed 
from  head  to  foot  against  beautiful  black  eyes, 
look  out  for  her,"  called  back  Pere  d'Exiles, 
laughing. 

"My  dear  sir,"  the  clergyman  protested  dif- 
fidently. 

And  he  rang  the  bell. 

-i 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  Annabel  was 
about  to  sit  down  to  luncheon  with  the 
Lieutenant,  when  Pere  d'Exiles  came  in. 

Timorously,  she  shot  a  furtive  glance  at 
him.  She  saw  that  he  was  in  perfect  humour. 
She  recovered  her  serenity. 

The  luncheon  was  extremely  gay. 

As  dessert  was  served,  Pere  d'Exiles  spoke 
up. 


io8  SALT   LAKE 

"Your  furniture  and  your  silver-ware  have 
almost  all  been  unpacked.  So,  chere  amie, 
don't  think  I  have  been  too  hasty  in  bringing 
you  a  guest." 

"A  guest?"  said  Annabel,  somewhat  non- 
plussed. 

"Yesterday  evening,  Lieutenant  Rutledge," 
continued  the  Jesuit,  "you  evinced  some  scep- 
ticism about  the  success  I  would  have  if  I  dis- 
cussed the  immortal,  spiritual  truths  with  a 
pastor  of  your  creed." 

The  young  man  opened  his  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"Well,  be  satisfied.  Tomorrow  at  lunch- 
eon, you  will  see  me  in  the  lists  with  the  Rev- 
erend Gwinett,  a  chaplain  of  the  American 
Army." 

"Reverend  Gwinett!"  muttered  Rutledge, 
disturbed  at  once. 

"It  is  he  whom  I  invited,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles,  triumphantly. 

Annabel  looked  at  both  of  them,  then,  with 
simplicity: 

"You  did  well,"  she  said. 

On  Sunday,  lunch  was  not  served  at  Rig- 
don  Pratt's  until  half  past  one.  They  were 


SALTLAKE  109 

not  expecting  the  clergyman.  He  himself 
did  not  imagine  that  they  were. 

He  rang.  Some  one  came  to  let  him  in.  It 
was  a  little  boy  of  about  ten  years.  They 
went  down  the  willow-bordered  walk  to- 
gether. The  kitchen  garden  could  be  seen 
through  the  over-hanging  branches;  with  its 
square  vegetable  beds,  laid  out  geometrically 
and  remarkably  well  kept. 

A  man  in  front  of  the  door,  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  pockets,  was  smoking  a  stubby 
pipe.  He  might  have  been  about  sixty  years 
old ;  he  was  thin,  wizened  and  sunburned, 
with  a  circle  of  white  beard,  but  shaven  lips. 

The  clergyman  and  this  man  greeted  each 
other.  As  they  shook  hands,  they  ascertained 
that  they  both  belonged  to  the  Scottish  Lodge. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man.  "A  brother 
Mason.  The  Reverend  Jemini  Gwinett,  I 
believe?" 

"Himself,"  said  the  preacher,  "and  before 
me  I  have,  without  a  doubt,  the  Honorable 
Rigdon  Pratt?" 

"Himself,"  said  the  Mormon. 

He  drew  a  puff  from  his  pipe. 

"Jemini,  a  good  name.  Book  of  Judges. 
Chapter  Three.  Verses  14  and  15.  'So  the 


no  SALT   LAKE 

children  of  Israel  served  Eghn,  the  king  of 
Moab,  eighteen  years.  But  when  the  children 
of  Israel  cried  unto  the  Lord,  the  Lord  raised 
them  up  a  deliverer,  Ehud,  the  son  of  Gera, 
the  son  of  Jemini,  a  man  shut  of  his  right  .  .  .' 

He  guffawed. 

"Well,  my  dear  Mr.  Gwinett,  I  hope  you 
also  are  not  shut  of  your  right." 

"Sir,"  said  Gwinett,  slightly  disconcerted, 
"will  you  peruse  this?" 

And  he  took  the  yellow  slip  out  of  Les 
Adieux  d'Adolphe  Monod. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Pratt,  waving  back  the 
slip.  "I  signed  it.  You  may  judge  that  I 
know  all  about  it.  Come,  come,  Nephtali," 
he  said  to  the  little  boy,  "do  me  the  favour  of 
showing  your  heels  and  taking  up  your  duties. 
I  can  see  from  here  that  there  is  a  cow  getting 
into  the  cabbages." 

The  child  left. 

"You  are  among  farmers  here,  sir,  or  rather 
no,  brother,  allow  me  to  call  you  brother,  as 
our  hand-shake  authorized  me  to ;  among  poor 
farmers.  Do  you  smoke?" 

"Never,"  said  Gwinett,  pushing  back  the 
proffered  tobacco-pouch. 


SALT   LAKE  in 

"Among  the  poorest  farmers,  I  repeat.  But 
hearts  of  gold.  Your  room  is  ready  and  you 
have  a  place  at  our  humble  board.  By  the 
Elohim,  if  the  day  ever  comes  when  you  will 
have  a  talk  with  President  Buchanan,  let  it 
not  be  said  that  you  will  have  cause  to  com- 
plain to  him  about  Rigdon  Pratt's  hospital- 
ity." 

He  shaped  his  hands  into  a  trumpet. 

"Sarah!"  he  called. 

Nothing  stirred  in  the  house. 

"Devilish  girl,"  grumbled  the  Bishop. 
"She  is  never  where  she  ought  to  be.  You 
will  have  to  excuse  her,  brother.  So  young, 
you  know.  Naomi!  Naomi!  Come  here  a 
minute,  will  you  please?" 

A  timid  little  woman  in  black  appeared  im- 
mediately on  the  threshold. 

"Mrs.  Pratt  number  three,"  said  the  Bishop 
as  he  introduced  her.  "Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure,  dear  Naomi,  of  conducting  the  Rev- 
erend to  the  room  which  has  been  prepared  for 
him?  The  meal  will  be  served  in  half  an 
hour,  brother.  It  is  understood,  of  course, 
that  you  are  lunching  with  us." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gwinett. 


iia  SALT   LAKE 

The  house  was  without  luxury,  but  large, 
well  aired  and  meticulously  clean.  The 
clergyman's  room  opened  on  to  a  prairie  that 
sloped  gently  towards  the  Jordan.  Some  fine 
cows  were  browsing  placidly  under  the  win- 
dow. 

M/rs.  Pratt  number  three  showed  him  the 
linen-press  filled  with  white  sheets  scented 
with  common  herbs,  the  towels,  the  toilet 
table  and  the  ink-well  on  a  small  table.  Then 
she  discreetly  opened  a  tiny  cupboard  con- 
cealed in  the  wall.  On  a  china-plate  was  a 
bottle,  covered  by  a  glass. 

"The  whiskey,"  she  whispered. 

And  she  closed  the  cupboard  again. 

"The  fool!"  thought  Gwinett.  "I  could 
have  easily  found  all  that  myself!  Ah!  here's 
my  canteen!" 

Mrs.  Pratt  helped  him  take  out  his  meagre 
belongings — several  books,  some  linen,  a  black 
frock-coat  for  services.  Then  she  departed. 

Left  to  himself,  Gwinett  inspected  his  sur- 
roundings more  thoroughly.  In  the  centre  of 
the  room,  the  bed,  a  very  wide  one,  was  a 
pleasure  to  see.  It  was,  like  the  windows, 
hung  with  chintz  curtains  sprinkled  with  bo- 


SALT   LAKE  113 

quets  of  red  flowers.  The  fragrance  of  hay, 
burned  by  the  sun,  rose  from  the  prairie. 

On  the  wall,  a  charcoal  portrait,  represent- 
ing Joseph  Smith  in  his  uniform  as  the  Gen- 
eral of  the  Nauvoo  militia. 

On  a  stand,  there  were  several  Mormon 
books  of  instruction  and  an  English  translation 
of  Beranger's  songs,  besides  the  Voyage  to 
Icaria,  by  Cabet. 

After  drinking  a  half  a  glass  of  whiskey,  the 
clergyman  made  a  hasty  toilet,  smoothed  his 
abundant  curls,  which  he  seemed  to  cherish 
particularly.  Then,  drawing  a  wide  arm- 
chair up  to  the  table,  near  the  window,  he 
waited,  Les  Adieux  d'Adolphe  Monod  opened 
upon  the  table. 

Very  soon  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
It  was  M.rs.  Pratt  number  three  once  more. 

He  followed  her  to  the  ground  floor,  into 
the  dining-room. 

On  the  threshold,  he  stopped  and  bowed. 

"Come  forward,  Brother,"  called  out  Rig- 
don  Pratt  who  was  already  installed  in  a 
cathedral-like  chair,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
colossal  table.  "Here's  your  place,  opposite 
me, — there  you  are.  Allow  me  to  introduce 


ii4          SALT   LAKE 

my  little  family  to  you.  Our  guest,  the  Rev- 
erend Jemini  Gwinett." 

He  pointed  out  the  family  in  chronological 
order. 

"Gertrude,  Mrs.  Pratt  number  two — Na- 
omi, Mrs.  Pratt  number  three,  you  know  her 
already — Miranda,  Mrs.  Pratt  number  five — 
you  will  have  to  excuse  Mrs.  Pratt  number 
four  and  Mrs.  Pratt  number  six.  They  are 
across  the  hall,  in  the  nursery,  taking  care  of 
the  young  children  who  are  not  admitted  to 
the  table  before  their  eighth  year.  Likewise, 
I  regret  that  I  am  not  able  to  introduce  Mrs. 
Pratt  number  one — but  the  Lord  summoned 
her  to  Him  last  year.  She  watches  over  us 
from  on  high.  But  there,  at  any  rate,  is  her 
only  daughter,  my  eldest  child,  Sarah  Pratt. 
She  is  instructed  to  oversee  things  so  that  we 
want  for  nothing  here.  Sarah,  greet  our 
guest,  my  daughter!" 

Sarah  bowed  without  lifting  her  eyes. 

"I  shall  not  introduce  the  others,"  added 
Rigdon  Pratt.  "There  are  fourteen,  you  see, 
from  Abimelech,  who  is  seventeen,  and  whom 
we  are  going  to  marry  one  of  these  days  to  a 
daughter  of  Brigham  Young's,  down  to  Susan- 
nah, who  is  just  eight.  Fourteen,  not  count- 


SALT   LAKE  115 

ing  Sarah,  naturally.  But  Sarah  is  a  grown- 
up. She  fills  her  deceased  mother's  place 
here.  Already  a  lady.  Come  now,  Sarah, 
smile  a  little!" 

Sarah  did  not  alter.  She  even  accentuated 
her  sulky  expression. 

"Ah!*  thought  the  clergyman,  who  had 
been  watching  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
"There  is  a  little  girl  who  has  every  appear- 
ance of  doing  just  as  she  pleases  and  appar- 
ently winds  that  old  brute  of  a  Rigdon  Pratt 
around  her  finger!" 

The  patriarch  continued  his  census. 

"The  six  little  ones,  under  eight  years  old, 
are  missing,  they  are  across  the  hall,  as  I  had 
the  honour  of  telling  you.  Then  there  are  the 
ten  older  children,  who  have  already  taken 
flight  from  the  nest.  One  is  a  lieutenant  in  the 
Federal  Army;  another  is  in  Paris,  secretary 
to  M.  Edgar  Quinet,  ex-representative  of  the 
people.  The  others  are  established  in  the 
vicinity  of  Salt  Lake  City." 

Mrs.  Pratt  number  two  had  just  placed 
an  enormous  dish  of  pork  and  beans  on  the 
table. 

"First  course,"  said  Rigdon  Pratt.  "Sec- 
ond course,  a  trout  from  Utah  Lake.  And 


n6          SALT   LAKE 

that's  all.  Ah!  you  see,  you  are  among  poor 
farmers.  You  can't  pick  and  choose." 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to,"  said  the  preacher 
dryly. 

"And  no  wine,  of  course,"  insisted  the 
Bishop,  "no  wine,  no  alcoholic  drinks.  Jo- 
seph Smith  has  put  it  well :  'Liquor  and  strong 
drinks  are  not  meant  for  the  stomach.'  Mir- 
anda," he  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Pratt  number 
five,  "take  a  little  care  of  Uri.  He  has  just 
spilled  beans  on  his  Sunday  trousers.  Also, 
I  regret  to  state  that  Boaz  has  no  napkin. 
And  to  think,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  arms 
heavenward,  "that  they  upbraid  us  for  being 
polygamists!  I  call  upon  you  to  witness, 
Brother:  with  five  wives,  does  it  look  as  if  I 
got  any  better  service?" 

"That  isn't  the  question,"  said  Gwinett. 

"Yes,  it  is,  think  of  it,"  continued  the 
Bishop.  "In  Washington,  in  Saint-Louis,  in 
Indianapolis,  they  accuse  us  of  leading  a  life 
of  luxury  and  debauchery — the  life  of  Phari- 
sees, of  Saducees.  Well,  you  can  see  for  your- 
self, Brother,  we  are  poor  people,  very  poor. 
And  in  addition,  today  was  Sunday.  But 
tomorrow,  I  warn  you,  there  will  be  only  one 
dish.  Unless  you  would  like  .  .  .  ' 


SALT   LAKE  117 

"I  must  insist  that  you  don't  go  to  any 
trouble  for  me,"  put  in  Gwinett,  annoyed. 
"Besides,  you  remind  me  that  I  will  not  have 
the  honour  of  appearing  at  your  table  tomor- 
row, at  lunch.  I  am  invited  elsewhere." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Mormon.  "At  His 
excellency  Governor  Cumming's,  I  suppose?" 

"No,"  answered  Gwinett,  "at  Mrs.  Lee's. 
Possibly  you  know  her?" 

Since  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  Sarah  as  he 
talked,  he  noticed  that  the  young  girl's  eyelids 
fluttered  almost  imperceptibly. 

"Well,  well,"  he  thought.  "I  believe  I 
have  found  a  way  to  hold  her  attention,  if 
need  be." 

He  repeated: 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Lee?" 

"Naturally,"  answered  Rjgdon  Pratt. 
"M}rs.  Lee  is  well-known  in  Salt  Lake  City, 
where  she  owns  the  most  beautiful  residence. 
Oh!  well,  if  you  are  going  to  lunch  with  Mrs. 
Lee,  I  won't  worry  about  you.  She  is 
wealthy,  very  wealthy." 

"Ah!"  said  the  clergyman. 

"She  is  a  great  friend  of  Governor  Cum- 
ming's and  of  General  Johnston's.  No  later 
than  last  night,  she  was  dining  with  them." 


ii8          SALT   LAKE 

"Ah?"  repeated  Gwinett,  more  and  more  in- 
terested. 

"She  is  rich,  extremely  rich.  We — we  are 
penniless,  forced  to  earn  our  bread  with  the 
sweat  of  our  brow.  She  .  .  .  ' 

"She?"  questioned  Gwinett. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  perceived  a  gleam 
of  turbid  jealousy  in  the  Mormon's  glance. 
He  tacked  about. 

"You,  at  any  rate,"  he  said  in  that  attrac- 
tive, warm  voice  that  he  knew  how  to  make  so 
convincing,  "you  are  honest  folk,  and  you 
have  already  succeeded  in  modifying  the  hasty 
opinions  I  may  have  formed  on  several  sub- 
jects, whose  merits  I  am  anxious  to  uphold  as 
soon  as  I  have  the  occasion  to  do  so." 

Above  all,  he  was  anxious  to  be  alone  in  his 
room,  in  order  to  collect  certain  thoughts. 

"The  devil  take  the  soldiers  and  Sunday  ser- 
vices," he  said  to  himself.  "I  have  something 
better  to  do.  Let  these  simpletons  take  their 
Bible  and  read  it.  If  they  find  one  word  of 
sense  in  it,  so  much  the  better  for  them." 

During  the  whole  afternoon,  he  did  not  stir 
forth.  About  six  o'clock,  some  one  knocked 
at  his  door. 


SALT   LAKE  119 

Sarah  Pratt  entered.  He  was  not  as  aston- 
ished as  he  might  have  been.  Nevertheless, 
he  reached  instinctively  to  hide  the  glass  of 
whiskey  that  was  on  the  table,  beside  Les 
Adieux  d'Adolphe  Monod. 

She  smiled  a  little  disdainfully. 

"If  it  is  there,  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  being 
drunk,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  bottle  under 
the  table. 

"Ah!"  thought  the  preacher,  "with  this  one, 
it  would  be  well  to  deal  openly!" 

Nevertheless  he  felt  obliged  to  pay  her  some 
compliment  or  other. 

He  reflected. 

"You  don't  need  anything?"  asked  the 
young  girl.  "We  dine  at  eight  o'clock.  I 
am  instructed  to  warn  you." 

He  decided  that  he  had  found  a  suitable 
thing  to  say. 

"No,  thank  you,  Miss  Sarah.  .  .  .  What 
a  pretty  dress  you  have  on !  Allow  me  to  com- 
pliment you  on  it.  It  is  extremely  becoming 
to  you." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  young  girl 
dryly. 

Sarah  Pratt  was  wearing  a  black  gown,  very 


120  SALT   LAKE 

simple,  with  ruffles  of  lace  on  the  arms  and  in 
the  hollow  of  the  neck. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Gwinett. 

"It  has  already  been  worn  by  Mrs.  Lee, 
your  hostess  tomorrow,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Lee 
is  kind  enough  to  give  me  her  old  dresses. 
My  father  said  it — we  are  poor." 

"So!"  muttered  Gwinett,  abashed.  "The 
devil  take  such  gallantry!" 

Immediately,  like  a  skilful  tactician,  he  re- 
solved to  transform  his  set-back  into  a  success. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  his  beauti- 
ful, deep  voice. 

And  he  took  her  hand. 

She  did  not  withdraw  it.  She  seemed 
rather  absent.  He  concluded  to  bring  her 
back  to  earth  by  respectfully  kissing  her  white 
arm. 

She  looked  at  him  in  ironic  surprise,  but 
she  did  not  push  him  away. 

"Isn't  Mrs.  Lee  leaving  one  of  these  days?" 
she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  murmured.  "Ah!  what 
is  Mrs.  Lee  to  me?" 

The  sequel  of  this  story  will  show  that  in 
speaking  so,  he  was  not  altogether  insincere. 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  Sarah,  "and  you  will 


SALT   LAKE  121 

realize  it,  as  soon  as  you  have  seen  her.  She 
is  far  prettier  than  I  am,  you  know.  Not  to 
mention  her  fortune,  which  is  something  to 
tempt  many  a  superior  soul." 

Gwinett  bit  his  lips. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said. 

And  she  walked  toward  the  door. 

An  extraordinary  emotion  began  to  trouble 
Gwinett's  spirit.  His  confusion  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  slender  girl  grew  and  grew,  be- 
came suddenly  boundless.  Was  she  not  a 
sister?  Was  she  not  the  very  replica  of  him- 
self? All  his  sufferings  as  a  poor  student,  his 
religious  bitterness,  his  doubts,  his  ill-confined 
antipathies,  his  disillusions,  at  length  his  ob- 
scure ambitions — he  divined  their  exaspera- 
tion beneath  that  thin  virgin  forehead,  pol- 
ished like  boxwood,  beneath  those  smooth 
bands  of  hair,  beneath  those  lowered  eyelids, 
beneath  that  tight  blouse  where  a  frenzied 
heart  must  pulse  in  flurried  beats. 

"Sarah!"  he  called.     "Sarah!" 

She  stopped.  She  looked  at  him  haught- 
ily. 

"Sarah! — Miss  Sarah!  I  beg  your  pardon! 
Ah!  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Where?"  she  asked. 


122  SALT   LAKE 

"Here,  in  this  country." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  coldly. 

"In  this  country,  my  sister!  Abjection! 
The  Bible,  once  for  all,  did  everything  to 
establish  woman's  dignity.  What  have  they 
done  with  it  here?  I  weep  for  you,  my  sister,  I 
weep  for  your  lot!" 

She  gave  a  little,  dry  laugh. 

"I  believe  I  understand  you,"  she  said. 
"But  don't  worry  so  much  about  me.  I 
shall  never  cease  to  be  free  until  I  will  it  my- 
self. Even  if  I  were  married  to  a  Mormon, 
I  would  still  be  free.  A  woman  of  will- 
power will  always  rule  the  poor  unfortunates 
who  compose  the  harem  of  her  spouse.  She 
will  know  how  to  make  model  and  economical 
servants  out  of  them.  For  the  rest,"  and  she 
smiled  with  disdain,  "it  is  better  to  recognize 
the  gulf  between  what  should  be  and  what  is, 
without  hypocrisy.  .  .  .  But  those  are  details 
that  a  young  girl  cannot  go  into." 

She  went  to  the  little  library. 

"I  don't  want  to  catechize  you,"  she  said 
scornfully.  "But  you  began  it!  It  annoys 
me  to  hear  a  man,  perhaps  very  intelligent,  re- 
peating nonsense." 

She  took  a  leaflet  from  the  shelves  and 


SALT  LAKE          123 

handed  it  to  him.  Mechanically  he  read  the 
title. 

"Defence  of  Polygamy  by  a  Lady  of  Utah" 
said  Sarah  Pratt.  "Perfectly  right.  A  de- 
fence of  polygamy.  The  person  who  wrote 
that  is  neither  a  lunatic  nor  a  simpleton.  It  is 
my  cousin,  Belinda  Pratt,  one  of  the  most 
sensible  of  people.  In  her  booklet  you  will 
find  an  exposition  of  the  numerous  reasons 
why  a  sensible  woman  might  advocate  the 
plurality  of  wives." 

"I  will  read  it,  I  promise  you,"  said  Gwi- 
nett.  "We  should  examine  everything." 

"Let  us  go  down,"  she  said.  "We  will  keep 
them  waiting." 

When  they  came  to  the  door-sill,  they 
stopped  at  the  same  time. 

"Sarah,"  murmured  Gwinett. 

Her  hand  was  already  upon  the  latch.  She 
was  pale.  She  threw  him  a  glance  of  sorrow- 
ful interrogation. 

"Sarah,  my  sister — for  you  are  willing  that 
I  should  call  you  Sarah,  are  you  not?" 

He  trembled.  Once  for  all  he  paid  the  ran- 
som for  all  the  emotions  he  had  simulated. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Will  you  let  me  kiss  you?"  he  pleaded. 

With  simplicity,  she  gave  him  her  forehead. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MONDAY  morning,  Pere  d'Exiles 
arose,  very  gay.  With  a  smile, 
he  watched  Annabel  and  Rut- 
ledge  setting  off  for  a  ride  about  nine  o'clock. 
He  heard  them  return  at  about  eleven.  A- 
round  noon,  he  began  to  show  signs  of  impa- 
tience. 

"Can  that  creature  have  gone  back  on  his 
word?"  he  muttered. 

The  few  pages  which  he  read  in  "Paroles 
d'un  Cray  ant"  to  conceal  his  excitement  and 
to  get  into  the  spirit  of  the  affair,  only  aug- 
mented his  anxiety. 

At  a  quarter  after  twelve,  however,  it  dis- 
appeared. 

Coriolan  had  come  into  the  room. 

"The  preacher  in  the  tail-coat  is  waiting  for 
Monsieur  1'  Abbe." 

"Ah!"  said  the  priest,  "Charming  fellow 
and  a  man  of  his  word  at  that!  Where  did 

you  put  him?" 

124 


SALTLAKE  125 

"In  the  dining-room." 

"I  shall  be  down  directly." 

Like  people  who  plan  long  ahead  of  time  to 
catch  a  train,  he  found  that  he  was  late.  He 
spent  a  good  two  minutes  in  trying  to  hit  upon 
a  sentence  by  which  a  Jesuit  might,  spontan- 
eously and  cordially,  greet  a  Methodist  minis- 
ter. 

At  length,  he  descended.  He  had  not  been 
out  since  morning  and  was  still  wearing  his 
comfortable  old  felt  slippers. 

"Well,  well!"  he  murmured,  as  he  entered 
the  dining-room  by  the  door  opposite  the  one 
through  which  the  clergyman  had  been  shown 
in. 

The  latter  had  his  back  turned.  He  was 
dressed  entirely  in  black.  He  had  stopped 
in  front  of  a  side-board.  Pere  d'Exiles 
watched  him  take  up  consecutively  a  coffee- 
pot, a  silver  cruet-stand,  a  compote-dish  of 
silver-gilt,  weigh  them  in  his  hand,  examine 
them  closely,  turn  them  over,  as  if  to  discover 
the  stamp  of  the  original  silversmith. 

"Good  morning,  dear  Mr.  Gwinett,"  said 
the  Jesuit  at  length. 

The  other  was  not  even  startled. 


126  SALT   LAKE 

Composedly,  he  placed  the  compote-dish, 
last  to  be  inspected,  back  upon  the  side-board. 

"Good  morning  sir." 

"You  seem  to  take  an  interest  in  silver- 
ware," said  Pere  d'Exiles  amiably. 

"My  grandfather,  whose  name  I  bear," 
responded  the  minister,  "was  a  Baltimore 
jeweller.  I  really  know  very  little  about 
silver  and  gold  bullion.  Enough,  however 
to  be  aware  that  these  various  objects  are 
very  valuable.  But  such  trifles,  sir,  such 
trifles." 

He  took  up  the  compote-dish. 

"This  superfluous  vessel  represents  what 
would  feed  an  honest  family  for  two  years. 
The  rich  are  either  wicked  or  heedless,  sir." 

"Come  now,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  playfully. 
"You  must  give  a  thought,  too,  to  the  crafts- 
men who  fashioned  that  superfluous  vessel! 
Doubtless,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  owing  to  the 
modest  profits  amassed  by  your  respected 
grandfather,  that  you  received  the  education, 
likewise  a  luxury,  which  you  put  to  such  good 
use  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord." 

"My  grandfather  died  poor,  sir,"  said 
Gwinett  dryly. 


SALT   LAKE  127 

He  bowed  deferentially.  Annabel  had 
just  entered. 

The  Jesuit  introduced  them  to  each  other. 

"Let  us  go  out  on  the  porch,  shall  we?"  said 
the  young  woman. 

They  went  out,  Annabel  leading.  The 
minister  swept  her  with  a  brief  glance,  which 
Pere  d'Exiles  did  not  fail  to  notice.  He 
smiled.  There  was  in  that  glance  of  Gwin- 
ett's,  admiration.  The  Jesuit  found  himself 
almost  flattered  by  it. 

Rutledge  was  on  the  terrace,  smoking.  He 
must  have  been  expecting  the  minister's 
arrival.  He  blushed  nevertheless,  and  embar- 
rassedly  shook  the  hand  which  the  other  ex- 
tended with  a  protecting  air. 

"Has  the  post  brought  you  any  news  from 
your  mother?"  inquired  the  clergyman. 

"A  letter  yesterday,"  answered  the  young 
man  evasively. 

"And  from  your  sister,  Miss  Margaret?" 

"A  letter,  too,"  said  Rutledge. 

And  rather  hastily,  he  began  to  talk  about 
something  else. 

They  had  not  yet  Assembled  at  table,  but 
already  a  heavy  uneasiness  weighed  upon 


128  SALT   LAKE 

them.  Pere  d'Exiles  noted  with  satifaction 
that  he  had  not  presumed  too  much  on  his 
guest's  possibilities  in  that  respect. 

"She  is  bored,  she  is  bored!"  he  said  to  him- 
self, looking  at  Annabel.  "And  her  hand- 
some little  lieutenant,  how  angry  she  is  with 
him  for  being  as  frightened  as  a  school-girl 
by  this  clergyman.  But  she  isn't  through 
yet!" 

Pere  d'Exiles  proved  implacable.  The 
first  course  had  barely  been  served  before  he 
led  the  conversation  around  to  Emerson.  His 
purpose  was  twofold — first  to  annoy  Annabel, 
who  could  not  bear  anything  that  in  the  least 
resembled  preachiness,  then  to  take  revenge 
upon  Gwinett  for  the  slight  victory  he  had 
won  in  the  discussion  about  Ignatius,  Francis 
Xavier  and  Bobadilla  the  day  before,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Jordan. 

He  succeeded  amply.  Before  an  astonished 
and  approving  Gwinett,  he  discoursed  at 
length  upon  the  "Trust  Thyself"  of  the 
redoubtable  American  mystic.  He  ended  by 
a  comparison  with  Fenelon  and  quoted  the 
sublime  phrases  with  enthusiasm: 
.  ."When  I  rest  in  perfect  humility,  -when  I 


SALT   LAKE          129 

burn  with  pure  love,  what  can  Calvin  and 
Swedenborg  say?  The  faith  that  stands  on 
authority  is  not  faith.  The  reliance  on  au- 
thority measures  the  decline  of  religion,  the 
withdrawal  of  the  soul.  Great  is  the  soul  and 
plain.  It  is  no  flatterer,  it  is  no  follower;  it 
never  appeals  from  itself.  It  believes  in  itself. 

"Thus  revering  the  soul,  and  learning,  as 
the  ancient  said,  that  flts  beauty  is  immense,' 
man  will  weave  no  longer  a  spotted  life  of 
shreds  and  patches,  but  he  will  live  with  a 
divine  unity. 

"I  would  make  certain  reservations  on  his 
theories,"  he  concluded,  "but  as  for  the  style, 
it's  magical  1" 

"Although  they  would  surely  not  be  the 
same,"  said  Gwinett,  "I  would  also  make  my 
reservations.  Lieutenant  Rutledge,  do  you 
know  which  ones?" 

The  officer  started.     He  shook  his  head. 

"What  I"  exclaimed  Gwinett  acidly.  "You 
don't  remember  that  quotation  of  Emerson's? 
Still,  it  is  the  very  one  I  took  as  the  topic  for 
the  address  I  pronounced  at  your  mother's 
request  a  year  and  a  half  ago  in  Chicago,  on 
Miss  Regina  Spalding's  birthday." 


130          SALT   LAKE 

Rutledge  turned  scarlet. 

"That  reminds  me,"  continued  the  rever- 
end, "a  while  ago,  I  forgot,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon,  to  ask  you  about  Miss  Spalding.  I 
hope  she  is  well." 

"She  is,"  mumbled  the  unfortunate  Rut- 
ledge. 

"What  a  sweet  girl!"  said  the  minister. 

"Who  is  Miss  Regina  Spalding?"  asked 
Annabel  indifferently,  as  she  took  tiny  sips 
of  creme  de  cassis. 

"Lieutenant  Rutledge's  fiancee,"  responded 
Gwinett  simply. 

There  was  a  silence.  Clumsy  gold 
bees  were  darting  about  in  the  shady 
room. 

"Ah  good  fellow!"  thought  Pere  d'Exiles, 
a  great  weight  lifted  from  his  heart.  "No, 
you  could  not  have  failed  me.  If  you  knew 
how  much  I  love  you,  for  that  infallible 
promptness  of  yours  in  putting  your  foot  in 
it!" 

He  had  nothing  more  to  worry  about.  He 
had  only  to  watch  the  boulder  plunging  down 
from  the  mountain  top  with  gathering  momen- 
tum. 


SALT   LAKE  131 

"You  don't  know  Miss  Spalding,  Mrs. 
Lee?"  asked  the  minister. 

uHow  should  I?"  said  Annabel,  laughing 
a  little.  "I  am  not  from  Chicago." 

"The  lieutenant  might  have  shown  you 
her  photograph,  he  has  it  in  his  can- 
teen." 

"He  has  not  even  done  me  the  honour  of 
mentioning  her  to  me,"  said  Annabel,  still 
laughing.  "Isn't  it  so,  Lieutenant?" 

"CI  .  .  ."    said     Rutledge,    overwhelmed, 

"But  his  forgetfulness  can  be  mended,  can't 
it?  Go  and  get  us  that  picture." 

"Pardon  me,  if  I  .  .  ."  he  mumbled. 

"What?"  she  exclaimed  with  banter. 
"Must  I  repeat  my  requests  twice?" 

He  went  out,  to  return  carrying  a  daguerre- 
otype on  which  a  young  Anglo-Saxon  beauty 
affected  a  drooping  air. 

"Extremely  pretty,  .a  great  deal  of  char- 
acter," said  Annabel,  carelessly.  "And  when 
is  the  wedding?" 

"At  the  end  of  the  campaign,"  said  Gwinett. 
"Isn't  it  deplorable  to  see  politics  delaying 
the  union  of  two  such  accomplished  young 
people  I" 


132  SALTLAKE 

"How  do  you  like  my  guest?"  asked  Pere 
d'Exiles  innocently,  when  Gwinett  and  Rut- 
ledge,  who  were  going  to  the  camp  together, 
had  taken  leave. 

"Your  guest!"  she  said. 

She  burst  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

"How  do  I  like  him?  He  is  an  odious 
boor,  an  odious  boor!" 

The  Jesuit  looked  contrite. 

"Do  I  astonish  you?" 

"You  embarrass  me,  more  than  anything. 
I  completely  mistook  your  feelings  about  him 
and  I  have  just  permitted  myself  .  .  ." 

"Permitted  yourself?" 

"To  invite  him  to  come  back  tomorrow." 

"Invite  him  to  come  tomorrow,  after  to- 
morrow, to  lunch  to  dinner,  to  stay  all  night,  if 
you  think  you  ought  to,"  said  Annabel.  "I 
only  ask  you  not  to  forget  that  I  am  leaving 
Sunday." 

"I  shall  take  good  care,"  Pere  Philippe 
lowering  his  head. 

They  re-entered  the  house. 

"What  is  this  vase  doing  here?"  said 
Annabel,  stopping  before  a  gorgeous  Chinese 
vase,  placed  on  a  small  table.  "Rose!" 


SALT   LAKE  133 

The  maid  came  running. 

"Why  isn't  this  vase  packed?" 

"It  was,  madame,"  said  the  negress,  rolling 
scared  eyes,  "but  it  was  in  a  trunk  that  Missus 
ordered  us  to  undo." 

"At  present,  there  remains  but  one  packing 
case  unopened,"  added  the  Jesuit. 

Annabel  bit  her  lips. 

"Enough.  See  that  all  this  is  packed  by 
Friday  night.  You  too,"  she  said  to  Rose  and 
to  Coriolan  who  was  entering  the  room,  "don't 
forget  that  we  leave  Salt  Lake  City  Sunday 
evening,  five  days  from  now." 

Thereupon,  she  left  them.  She  did  not 
reappear  until  dinner  time,  and  she  took 
refuge  in  her  room  immediately  after.  Dur- 
ing the  meal,  she  did  not  open  her  mouth 
to  say  a  word.  Rutledge  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  himself.  Annabel  gone,  the  Jesuit 
took  pity  on  the  poor  boy  and  suggested  a 
game  of  chess,  which  the  other  accepted 
with  a  grateful  look  from  his  honest,  sorrow- 
ful eyes. 

The  clergyman  returned  the  next  day  and 
the  day  after.  Annabel  was  gay  and  heed- 
less once  again.  She  paid  very  little  attention 


134  SALT   LAKE 

to  Rutledge,  but  now  and  then,  threw  him 
mocking  glances  which  desolated  the  unfor- 
tunate young  man.  Pere  d'Exiles  was  in 
heaven. 

That  evening,  which  was  Wednesday,  the 
thirtieth  of  June,  Annabel's  departure  still 
fixed  for  Sunday,  the  fourth  of  July,  she  in- 
sisted upon  keeping  the  clergyman  to  dinner— 
they  wanted  to  finish  a  game  of  whist. 

After  dinner,  as  the  unhappy  lieutenant  was 
throwing  her  humble  and  pleading  glances, 
Annabel,  rendered  excessively  nervous  and 
capricious,  declared  that  she  was  tired  of 
whist.  She  expressed  a  desire  to  learn 
the  essentials  of  the  clergyman's  life.  The 
preacher  had  been  particularly  brilliant  dur- 
ing dinner.  After  allowing  himself  to  be 
properly  coaxed,  he  consented. 

"You  ask  me.  Mrs.  Lee,  to  resuscitate  for 
you  the  memory  of  unspeakable  sufferings," 
he  began. 

And,  taking  up  a  studiedly  simple  pose,  he 
gave  them  a  long  narration,  monotonous  and 
uplifting  like  a  novel  by  the  Bronte  sisters. 
Since  nothing  is  more  calculated  to  destroy 
the  unity  of  ,a  story  than  this  sort  of  digression, 
the  account  of  the  Reverend  Gwinett's  infancy 


SALT   LAKE  135 

and  adolescence  shall  not  find  a  place  here. 
That  account,  however,  seemed  to  make  quite 
a  favorable  impression  on  Annabel. 

"He  is  very  interesting,"  she  murmured 
several  instances,  in  Pere  d'Exile'  ear. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  answered  the  Jesuit, 
drawn  out  of  the  pleasant  somnolence  into 
which  the  sentences  of  his  dissenting  colleague 
plunged  him  little  by  little. 

When  he  had  finished,  by  a  peroration  that 
fixed  even  the  attention  of  the  disconsolate 
Rutledge,  the  clergyman  arose  to  take  leave. 

"We  will  accompany  you  as  far  as  your 
house,"  said  Annabel  with  alacrity. 

She  threw  a  dark  mantle  over  her  beautiful 
light  hair.  They  went  out.  On  the  road,  she 
took  the  Jesuit's  right  arm  and  the  clergyman's 
left.  The  lieutenant  went  ahead,  a  dejected 
silhouette  beneath  the  moon. 

The  night  was  warm,  and  the  sky  pale  blue. 
Through  the  willows,  to  the  left  and  to  the 
right,  the  brooks  splashed  along  noisier  where 
the  road  sloped.  And,  by  moments,  it  was 
Annabel's  clear  laugh  which  resounded. 

Thus  they  came  upon  the  dark  mass  of  Rig- 
don  Pratt's  residence. 


136  SALT   LAKE 

"Look!"  said  the  young  woman.  "Some- 
one is  waiting  for  you." 

Gwinett  started.  At  the  window,  that  of 
his  room,  behind  the  blinds,  a  lamp  was 
lighted. 

He  was  so  troubled  by  this  observation,  that 
he  forgot  the  speech  he  had  been  preparing 
for  half  an  hour,  to  take  leave  of  Annabel 
Lee  according  to  his  notions  of  propriety. 

The  entrance  door  was  fastened  only  by  a 
latch.  He  managed  to  enter  without  hin- 
drance. During  his  recital,  he  had  emptied 
several  times  the  glass  that  Annabel  refilled 
each  time.  He  became  aware  of  it  as  he 
climbed  the  obscure  staircase. 

On  the  landing,  he  recognized  the  door  of 
his  room,  underlined  at  the  bottom  by  a  yellow 
ray.  He  pushed  open  the  door,  his  heart  beat- 
ing. 

"You!"  he  murmured,  "you!" 

Sarah  Pratt  was  seated  at  the  little  table, 
her  waxy  forehead  under  the  lamp.  She 
was  reading. 

She  lifted  her  head. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Gwinett.  "If  I  had 
known  . 


SALT    LAKE  137 

"You  have  no  need  to  excuse  yourself,"  she 
answered.  "You  couldn't  have  known  that 
I  was  waiting  for  you." 

He  remained  upon  the  threshold,  confused, 
his  round  bat  in  his  hand. 

"Close  th-i  dror,"  she  said.  "Take  off  your 
coat  and  come  and  sit  down.  You  might 
guess  that  if  I  am  waiting  for  you  at  this 
hour,  I  have  something  important  to  tell 
you." 

He  obeyed.  When  he  came  close  to  her, 
she  whispered  a  hasty  sentence  to  him. 

He  started.     His  countenance  grew  livid. 

"Already!"  he  groaned. 

"Yes." 

"But  it  wasn't  to  be  ...  It  wasn't  to  be  so 
soon !" 

"The  fact  is,"  she  s£id,  "that  it  is  in  two 
days." 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  know  all 
about  it?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Have  you  forgotten  that  Rigdon  Pratt  is 
Secretary  of  the  Cantonment  Commission? 
My  father  just  left  Brigham  Young  a  short 
while  ago,  and  Brigham  Young  heard  the 


138  SALT   LAKE 

news  from  Governor  Gumming.  The  de- 
cision is  still  secret,  and  will  be  until  tomorrow 
night.  It  was  taken  this  evening  at  seven  and 
agreed  upon  by  General  Johnston  and  Gov- 
ernor Gumming." 

Gwinett  gave  a  short  sob. 

"Leave  you,  Sarah!" 

And  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Her  face  lit  up  with  joy.     Once  again,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  don't  have  to  leave  me  unless  you  want 
to,  Jemini,"  she  said. 

Upon  her  pale,  wilful  lips,  his  name  did 
not  seem  so  laughable. 

"Unless  I  want  to  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down!"  she  said.     "Time  is 
precious.     Let  us  talk  little,  but  well." 

And  she  began  to  spe^k  to  him  in  a  low 
voice. 

They  debated  about  an  hour.     The  lamp 
flickered. 

"I  believe  I  understand,  Sarah,  I  under- 
stand," said  Gwinett,  transported. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  do,"  she  said. 

"Sarah,  Sarah,  do  you  really  think  we  might 
succeed?" 


SALT   LAKE  139 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  if  you  follow  out  what  we 
have  just  planned  to  the  letter." 

"I  understand,  Sarah!  But  I  must  confess 
that  I  am  afraid,  somewhat  afraid  .  .  ." 

"Of  what?"  she  demanded  impatiently. 

"Of  the  ease  with  which  you  decide  .  .  . 
with  which  you  assign  me  such  a  role.  Sarah 
what  if  you  didn't  love  me  as  I  love  you !  .  .  ." 

"I  trust  you,"  she  said  simply. 

The  lamp  was  going  down  i;apidly.  Both 
of  them  were  standing,  face  to  face,  in  the 
shadowy  room. 

"Sarah!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  light  flickered,  then  died;  they 
embraced  hastily.  A  moment  later,  Gwinett 
heard  the  steps  of  the  girl  die  away  in  the  hall. 

"Well,  well,  Mr.  Gwinett,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?"  asked  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"You  are  quite  pale,"  said  Annabel. 

"Do  our  cigars  bother  you?"  asked  Rut- 
ledge. 

"No,"  said  the  clergyman.  "It  is  nothing. 
It  will  pass." 

"The  weather  is  dreadfully  close  and  the 
heat  is  unbearable,"  said  the  young  woman. 


140          SALT   LAKE 

"Coffee  is  served  on  the  verandah.  We  shall 
be  cooler  there.  Let  us  go  out."  And  she 
rose  from  the  table. 

The  men  followed  suit. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Annabel. 

Gwinett  had  fallen  back  into  his  chair,  his 
head  hanging  down,  his  lips  contracted. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?"  cried 
the  lieutenant.  The  minister  opened  his  eyes. 

"Nothing,  it's  nothing,"  he  said,  attempting 
a  smile. 

He  made  an  effort  to  arise.  He  fell  back 
once  more. 

Pere  d'Exiles  took  his  hand.  It  was  icy. 
He  felt  his  pulse.  It  was  almost  impercep- 
tible. He  frowned. 

Into  his  room,  or  rather  into  Rutledge's 
room,  he  carried  the  minister,  with  the  aid  of 
Coriolan.  He  threw  the  windows  wide  open, 
after  laying  Gwinett  on  the  bed. 

"Give  me  your  smelling  salts,"  he  said  to 
Ann-abel. 

She  hunted  for  them  feverishly  and  found 
them  at  last.  The  Jesuit  alone  had  kept  a 
cool  head.  Alone  he  undressed  the  minister. 
Gwinett  had  not  regained  consciousness. 


SALT   LAKE  141 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  what  can  be 
the  matter?"  repeated  Rutledge  and  Annabel 
over  and  over. 

Pere  d'Exiles  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"How  should  I  know?  Lieutenant,  you 
have  your  horse?" 

"Yes." 

"There  must  be  physicians  at  the  camp." 

"Yes.  Senior-Surgeon  Irving,  Surgeon- 
Lieutenants  Turner  and  McVee." 

"Good.  Jump  on  your  horse  immediately 
and  bring  us  back  the  Senior-Surgeon.  He 
must  be  the  most  capable,  since  he  has  the 
highest  rank." 

"In  the  meanwhile,  I  am  going  to  have 
Doctor  Codoman  called,"  said  Annabel. 

Pere  d'Exiles  made  a  face. 

"I  don't  care  much  about  Doctor  Codoman. 
But  still  it's  true  that  it  takes  a  good  hour  to 
go  and  come  from  camp.  Doctor  Codoman 
could  get  here  in  half  an  hour.  We  have  no 
right  to  lose  precious  time." 

Coriolan  and  the  officer  gone,  Annabel 
remained  with  the  Jesuit  at  the  minister's 
side;  likewise  Rose  who,  with  smothered 
squawks,  was  telling  her  prayers  upon  a 
rosary  of  mauve  amaranth. 


142  SALT    LAKE 

Doctor  Darius  Codoman,  ex-professor  of 
Legal  Medicine  at  the  Faculty  of  Paris,  was 
the  only  physician  in  Salt  Lake  City.  He 
had  made  numerous  attempts  to  be  received 
by  Annabel,  but  without  success.  Apparently 
he  bore  her  no  ill  will  for  it,  since  he  arrived, 
in  a  few  minutes. 

"Madame,  mon  Pere''  he  greeted,  bowing 
with  the  best  grace  in  the  world. 

Pere  d'Exiles  conducted  him  to  the  bed 
where  the  minister  was  lying.  Briefly,  he 
recounted  the  symptoms  to  each  one,  the  doc- 
tor shook  his  head  in  approval. 

"Oui,  c'est  cela;  c'est  bien  cela." 

He  meditated. 

"There  are  no  two  diagnostics  possible. 
Sore  throat,  epigastric  pains,  torpor,  itching, 
excruciating  cramps,  intermittent  syncopes, 
complete  prostration,  voiceless,  dry  skin.  No 
fever,  but  great  weakness  and  somnolence. 
Impossible,  I  repeat,  to  be  mistaken." 

He  bent  towards  the  Jesuit  and  the  young 
woman. 

"He  is  lost." 

Annabel  clasped  her  hands. 


SALT   LAKE  143 

"What  do  you  diagnose?"  asked  the  priest 
nevertheless. 

"A  very  uncommon  disease,  fortunately; 
when  it  presents  itself,  it  never  misses  its  man. 
This  unhappy  person  is  struck  down  by  acute 
jaundice,  also  called  pernicious  jaundice,  or 
malignant  jaundice,  acute  yellow  atrophy  of 
the  liver  or  spontaneous  fat  metamorphosis. 
This  malady,  which  the  learned  researches  of 
Rokitansky  and  Winderlich  .  .  ." 

"Is  there  nothing  to  be  done?"  demanded 
Annabel. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Codoman.  "It  is 
one  of  the  maladies  against  which  Science 
finds  itself  absolutely  unarmed.  Rien!  Soon 
the  jaundice  will  appear,  accompanied  by 
crythematic  spots.  Then  delirium  with 
convulsive  contractions  of  the  jaws,  subsulti; 
then,  coma;  then  death." 

"The  poor  man,  the  poor  man!"  repeated 
Annabel  wringing  her  hands.  "Doctor,  doc- 
tor, isn't  there  some  way  to  make  his  last 
moments  easier?" 

"We  are  going  to  try,"  said  the  doctor. 

iHe  began  to  write  a  prescription:  a  potion 
with  hydrated  magnesia,  five  grams;  lemo- 


144  SALT   LAKE 

nade,  perchloride  of  iron,  ten  drops;  decoction 
of  gummed  rice  water;  Rabel  water,  twenty 
drops;  laudanum,  fifteen  drops  .  .  ." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  time  it  will  take  Mr.  Cricket  to  de- 
liver us  alii  that!  Mr.  Cricket  derives  his 
revenue  less  from  pharmacy  than  from 
the  sale  of  hooks  and  bait  for  fishing. 
Haven't  you  some  of  those  drugs  here, 
Madame,  by  chance?" 

"I  don't  know  ...  I  think  so,"  said 
Annabel,  who  was  losing  her  head.  "The 
box,  the  trunk  where  the  little  medicine  chest 
is  ...  Father  .  .  .  Rose  .  .  .  open  it 
quick  1" 

"Ah!"  murmured  Pere  d'  Exiles.  "The 
last  trunk.  The  only  one  that  was  still  un- 
touched!" 

He  went  out,  nevertheless,  with  Rose.  He 
returned  shortly,  carrying  woollen  bandages, 
several  bottles,  several  boxes  of  drugs. 

All  the  while  as  he  aided  the  physician  in 
his  preparations,  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  the 
sick  man. 

"Doctor,  will  you  permit  me  to  ask  you  a 
question?"  he  demanded  at  last. 

"Pray  do  so." 


SALT   LAKE  145 

"Don't  you  think  that  this  attack  might  be 
due  to  the  ingestion  of  a  toxic  substance?" 

Being  a  missionary,  Pere  d'Exiles  had 
acquired  the  power  to  express  himself  in 
strange  technical  language  without  difficulty. 

Doctor  Codoman  looked  at  him  pityingly. 

"It  seems  that  you  don't  know  to  whom  you 
are  speaking,  Monsieur?" 

"O,"  said  the  priest.  "I  know  that  you 
have  been  a  professor  at  the  College  of 
Medicine  in  Paris." 

"And  a  disciple  of  Orfila,  Monsieur,  of 
Orfila  and  of  Trousseau.  Well,  do  you  know 
what  these  masters  say,  the  one  in  his  Traite 
de  Toxicologie  Generale  and  the  other  in  his 
Rapport  sur  la  Ligature  de  I'Oesophage?" 

The  Jesuit  made  a  gesture  admitting  his 
ignorance. 

"Do  you  know,  besides,  that  I  was  entrusted 
with  the  examinations  in  such  celebrated  cases 
as  the  suicide  of  the  Duke  de  Choiseul-Praslin 
and  that  of  the  convicts  Souffard  and  Ayme? 
So  then,  be  at  rest.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  if 
death  is  due  to  poisoning,  the  post-mortem 
will  not  fail  to  disclose  it.  For  the  time  be- 
ing, suffer  me  to  keep  my  diagnosis." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  provoked. 


i46  SALTLAKE 

"I  didn't  presume  to  give  you  a  lesson.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  your  diagnosis  will  be  con- 
firmed by  that  of  your  Colleague,  Senior-Sur- 
geon Irving  of  the  American  Army,  whom  we 
had  to  call,  since  the  patient  belongs  to  the  said 
army.  While  we  wait,  let  me  leave  you  to 
your  work  and  I  will  return  to  mine." 

Thereupon  the  Jesuit  sat  down  by  the  bed- 
side of  Gwinett  and  began  to  read  his  brevi- 
ary. 

It  was  four  o'clock.  Doctor  Irving  had 
not  yet  come.  In  a  corner  of  the  room,  Doc- 
tor Codoman  was  recounting  to  the  horror- 
stricken  Annabel  details  of  the  assassination 
of  the  Duchess  de  Choiseul-Praslin. 

"On  the  nineteenth  of  August,  the  examin- 
ing Peers  visited  the  Prasline,  mansion  55, 
Faubourg  Saint-Honore.  The  bed  room  was 
still  just  as  it  had  been  the  morning  of  the 
crime.  The  blood  had  turned  from  red  to 
black,  that  was  the  only  difference.  The 
struggles  and  resistance  made  by  the  Duchess 
were  seen  there,  lifelike  and  vivid.  Every- 
where, bloody  hands  along  the  walls,  from  one 


SALTLAKE  147 

door  to  the  other,  from  one  bell  to  the 
other  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  plqase,  Doctor  .  .  ."  pleaded  Anna- 
bel, revolted. 

"The  poor  Duchess  was  literally  hacked  to 
pieces,  slashed  by  a  knife,  felled  by  the  butt 
of  a  pistol.  Allard,  Vidocq's  successor  at  the 
Secret  Police  Bureau,  told  us:  'This  is  a  bad 
job — professional  assassins  work  better,  it's  the 
handiwork  of  a  man  of  the  world." 

"How   awful,"   cried   the   young  woman. 

"As  to  the  Duke,"  continued  Codoman, 
"he  had  not  lost  his  composure.  At  the  Lux- 
embourg, one  of  the  Peers,  Count  de  Noce, 
came  up  to  me,  saying:  'Can  you  imagine! 
He  had  made  a  fire  to  burn  his  dressing-gown!' 
I  told  him:"  'Why  didn't  he  do  away  with 
himself,  too?'  " 

Just  then,  Gwinett  suffered  another  syncope. 
The  doctor  went  over  to  him  with  ill-humour. 
He  was  angry  with  the  sick  man  for  having 
spoiled  his  climax. 

"And  Doctor  Irving  isn't  here  yet!"  mur- 
mured Annabel  despairingly. 

"I  am  quite  ready  to  give  him  my  place, 


148  SALTLAKE 

Madame,"  said  Codoman  acidly.  "How- 
ever, allow  me  to  have  my  doubts  as  to  .  .  ." 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  Doctor!"  she 
broke  in,  taking  his  hand.  "But  to  see  that 
poor  man  suffer  so  and  not  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing .  .  .  Oh,  it's  terrible  1" 

Pere  d'Exiles  was  still  at  his  breviary. 

The  minister's  spasm  had  subsided;  the 
physician  found  himself  once  more  at  liberty 
to  pursue  the  exposition  of  his  toxicological 
prowess. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Madame,  it  is  just  as  I  have 
the  honour  to  assert:  as  is  usual  in  the  majority 
of  cases  of  poisoning  by  arsenious  acid,  the 
post-mortem  showed  that  the  Duke's  stomach 
had  not  a  single  scar.  It  was  scarcely  in- 
flamed. But  as  for  the  liver,  that  was  another 
matter.  We  operated  separately  upon  four 
hundred  grams  of  that  viscera — first,  by  incin- 
eration with  nitrate  of  potassium;  second,  by 
decomposing  the  organic  matter  with  chlor- 
ine. We  had  decided  not  to  have  recourse 
to  the  process  of  carbonization  by  sulphuric 
acid,  so  vaunted  by  the  institute  because  it 
offers  far  fewer  advantages  than  the  ones 
which  have  just  been  mentioned.  Indeed,  the 


SALT   LAKE  149 

results  thus  obtained  won  us  congratulations 
from  the  Chancellors's  office." 

"How  does  it  happen,  Doctor,"  asked 
Annabel,  trying  to  change  the  conversation, 
"how  does  it  happen  that  you  consented  to 
leave  Paris,  when  you  enjoyed  such  a  high 
position  as  you  must  have  occupied  there?" 

Codoman's  brow  darkened. 

"I  refused  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to 
the  Empire,  Madame,"  he  answered  dryly. 

Pere  d'Exiles'  lips,  moving  in  prayer, 
stopped  for  a  fleeting  smile.  He  was  fully 
aware  of  all  the  circumstances  which  had 
caused  the  physician's  departure  from  France 
convicted  of  having  contributed,  by  peculiar 
methods,  to  a  considerable  depression  in  the 
birth-rate  of  the  arrondissement  where  he 
practised. 

"Ah!"  cried  Annabel,  "here  comes  Doctor 
Irving  at  last!" 

The  Senior-Surgeon,  a  pale,  timid  little 
man,  would  have  been  glad  to  sink  into  the 
earth  when  he  perceived  that  a  colleague  was 
present,  a  colleague  who  must  have  already 
pronounced  his  verdict  at  the  patient's  bed- 
side. 


ISO  SALT   LAKE 

Annabel,  without  giving  him  time  to  gather 
himself  together,  dragged  him  to  the  bed. 

"Your  opinion,  Doctor,  quick,  your  opin- 
ion, I  beg  of  you!" 

"My  opinion,  hum!  Certainly,  Madam. 
Wait  just  a  minute,"  said  the  poor  little  man. 

He  took  Gwinett's  hand,  still  inert,  but  it 
was  to  Codoman  that  he  looked  with  implor- 
ing eyes. 

He,  cold  and  dignified,  appeared  not  to 
notice  this  pitiful  appeal. 

"Well?"  asked  Annabel. 

"Well  ...  44,  45,  46  ...  so  far  I  can 
48,  49  ...  tell  you,  madam  ...  51,  52  ... 
.  .  .  that  is  not  one  of  my  specialties." 

"Are  you  a  specialist,  my  dear  colleague?" 
asked  Codoman  carelessly. 

"Perhaps  a  specialist  is  not  exactly  the 
right  term,"  said  the  little  man  humbly.  "It 
would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  my  patients 
are  specialists.  A  military  surgeon,  you  see 
.  .  .  Excepting  for  dysentery  in  summer, 
bronchitis  in  winter  and,  at  all  times,  sprains 
and  diseases  .  .  .  diseases  .  .  .  pardon  me,  but 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady  .  .  ." 


SALTLAKE  151 

"We  understand." 

"To  be  thorough,  I  must  add  an  occasional 
case  of  scurvy  during  campaigns  in  territories 
at  high  altitudes." 

"Evidently,  it  isn't  much,"  said  Codoman 
with  a  sniff.  "Your  practice  is  not  calculated 
to  help  you  in  a  diagnosis.  But,  to  return 
to  the  case  we  are  concerned  with,  what  is  your 
opinion?" 

"My  opinion,  my  opinion  .  .  ."  said  Irving 
in  despair,  as  his  eyes  roamed  from  door  to 
window. 

Nevertheless,  he  contrived  to  steady  his 
voice  and  give  it  a  shade  of  authority. 

"It's  serious,  evidently  very  serious.  And 
first  of  all,  my  opinion  is  th,at  there  are  too 
many  people  around  the  sick  man.  Madam, 
my  dear  sir,  will  you  please  go  out  for  a  few 
minutes  and  leave  me  with  my  colleague  for 
a  while?"  he  begged,  throwing  a  look  that 
would  have  softened  a  tiger  to  Anaabel  and 
the  Jesuit 

Pere  d'Exiles  and  the  young  woman  met  on 
the  terrace. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  nonsense?" 
said  Annabel,  frowning.  "That  surgeon  is 


i52  SALT   LAKE 

perfectly  ridiculous.  Why  did  he  make  us 
go  out?" 

"Why?"  said  the  Jesuit.  "To  put  it  meta- 
phorically, he  is  surrendering  the  keys  of  his 
meagre  knowledge  to  his  victorious  rival. 
You  embarrassed  him,  so  did  I.  And,  any- 
way, I  am  not  sorry  for  this  little  intermission." 

He  looked  fixedly  at  Annabel. 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  told  me  last 
Monday?" 

"Well?"  asked  the  young  woman. 

"You  asked  me  not  to  forget  that  you  were 
leaving  Salt  Lake  City  by  the  next  convoy, 
Sunday,  the  fourth  of  July.  Today  is  Thurs- 
day, the  first.  You  see,  I  haven't  forgotten." 

"Circumstances  aren't  the  same  any  more," 
said  Annabel  with  a  flutter  of  her  eyelids. 

"How  can  they  have  changed?" 

"Why,  that  poor  man  who  is  dying,"  she 
said.  "Father,  you  astonish  me!" 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  your  presence  can 
save  him,"  he  s,aid  acidly. 

"I  prefer  not  to  listen  to  you,"  she  replied. 
"Let  us  go  in,  I  think  their  confab  must  be 


over." 


SALT   LAKE  153 

It  was  nine  o'clock  at  night.  Senior-Sur- 
geon Irving,  then  Doctor  Codoman  had  de- 
parted. Annabel  and  Pere  d'Exiles  remained 
alone  with  the  clergyman.  They  had  not  dined. 

The  sound  of  foot-steps  was  heard  in  the 
garden.  Lieutenant  Rutledge  appe.ared  on 
the  threshold  of  the  bed-room. 

"We  are  leaving!"  he  cried. 

Annabel  drew  herself  up  and  pointing  to 
the  dying  man : 

"Go,  be  noisy  somewhere  else,"  she  com- 
manded. 

The  Jesuit  went  with  the  officer. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"The  army  leaves  Salt  Lake,  tomorrow 
morning." 

And  the  young  lieutenant's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Tomorrow  morning!"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 
"Well!  well!" 

He  asked: 

"Where  is  it  going?" 

"For  the  present,  to  Cedar  Valley,  forty 
miles  from  here." 

"Well,  well!"  repeated  Pere  d'Exiles.  He 
reflected  a  moment. 


154  SALT    LAKE 

"When  was  the  order  given?" 

"At  orderly  call,  this  evening,"  answered 
Rutledge. 

"Wasn't  that  order  known  before?" 

"Senior-Surgeon  Irving  knew  nothing  of 
it  when  he  came  here.  The  decision  must 
have  been  taken  this  morning." 

"All  this  is  very  strange,"  muttered  Pere 
d'Exiles. 

"I  must  collect  my  things,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant. "We  leave  tomorrow  morning  at  six 
o'clock.  I  have  to  sleep  at  camp  tonight." 

"Some  one  will  help  you  get  them  to- 
gether," said  Pere  Philippe. 

"And  she,"  cried  Rutledge,  "she,  I  want  to 
see  her!" 

"I  will  go  and  ask  her  to  come  and  say  good- 
bye to  you,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

He  entered  the  bed  room.  An  instant  later, 
he  came  out  alone. 

"Mr.  Gwinett  is  suffering  a  crisis,"  he 
explained.  "A  fatal  issue  is  to  be  feared  at 
any  minute.  Mrs.  Lee  can't  leave  him.  You 
must  excuse  her." 

"Ah!"  cried  out  Rutledge  with  despair. 
"Not  to  see  her  again!" 


SALT   LAKE  155 

"You  will  have  to  excuse  her,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles  firmly. 

The  young  man  lowered  his  head.  Tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks  again.  Pere  Philippe 
took  his  hand. 

"So  you  loved  her?"  he  muttered. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  moonlight 
dripped  upon  the  whitish  leaves  of  the  willow- 
trees. 

"The  army  leaves  tomorrow  morning," 
said  the  Jesuit.  "And  the  convoy,  the  convoy 
that  was  to  leave  Salt  Lake  Sunday  night?" 

"The  thirty  wagons  which  are  to  compose 
it  remain  at  camp,"  said  Rutledge  in  a  broken 
voice.  "They  will  leave  at  the  date  set,  next 
Sunday,  ;at  eight  o'clock.  I  am  directed  by 
Captain  Van  Vliet  to  inform  Mrs.  Lee  that 
four  wagons  will  be  reserved  for  her  until  the 
last  minute." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Perhaps  all  is  not 
lost  yet!" 

He  seized  the  lieutenant's  hands. 

"You  love  Annabel  Lee,  did  you  say,  sir?" 

Rutledge  responded  by  showing  him  his 
face  wet  with  tears. 

"Well,  my  dear  boy,  love  only  exists  when 


156  SALT   LAKE 

unselfish.  You  are  leaving  tomorrow. 
Perhaps  you  may  return  some  day,  in  a  month, 
in  a  year,  in  twenty,  I  don't  know.  If  you 
love  her,  pray  that  you  may  never  see  her 
again,  here  at  least!" 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  American  Army  left  Salt  Lake  on 
Friday,  the  second  of  July,  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  after  a  sojourn  of  less  than  a 
week  on  the  banks  of  the  Jordan. 

Sunday,  July  the  fourth,  around  eight 
clock  in  the  evening,  Pere  d'Exiles  came  out 
of  the  room  where  all  day  he  had  watched 
over  the  minister  in  company  with  Annabel 
Lee.  Doctor  Codoman,  who  had  called 
about  five  o'clock,  had  not  discovered  any 
improvement  in  Gwinett's  condition,  but  no 
aggravation  either. 

He  had  withdrawn  perplexed. 

Pere  d'Exiles  walked  about  the  house. 
From  the  massive  sideboard  to  the  most  fragile 
vase,  each  object  was  back  in  place. 

A  few  straws  here  and  there  alone  bore 
witness  that  at  a  certain  moment  there  had 
been  some  question  of  departure. 

In  the  kitchen,  Rose  and  Coriolan  were 
finishing  a  melancholy  repast.  The  Jesuit 


SALT   LAKE          157 

quailed  at  the  prospect  of  a  conversation  with 
the  poor  negroes.  He  hastened  away. 

There  are  evenings  in  midsummer  that  hint 
already  of  winter,  in  the  silence  of  the  tiny 
creatures'  voices,  in  that  smell  of  acrid  smoke. 

This  evening  was  one  of  those. 

In  front  of  the  entry  door,  opening  into  the 
black,  empty  garden,  the  purple  martin  darted 
about  with  harsh,  shrill,  heart-rending  cries. 

Pere  d'Exiles  went  to  sit  on  the  veranda. 
Night  had  fallen  now  .  .  . 

Then,  in  the  distance,  a  noise  was  born. 
A  noise  which  reverberated  in  slow,  muffled 
jolts  upon  the  gloomy  wall  of  the  Wahsatch 
Mountains. 

The  last  American  convoy  was  leaving  Salt 
Lake — without  Annabel  Lee. 

Prey  to  a  profound  discouragement,  Pere 
d'Exiles  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and 
remained  thus  a  long  time,  until  he  no  longer 
heard  the  wagons  as  they  rumbled  towards 
the  land  of  redemption  in  the  East. 


CHAPTER  V 


r  iHE  middle  of  August  was  approach- 

ing and  the  clergyman  recovered  so 
M  slowly,  that  Pere  d'Exiles  was 
driven  to  desperation.  Gwinett  ate  with  a 
good  enough  appetite,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
profit  by  the  delicate  viands  set  before  him. 
He  scarcely  complained,  anyway.  He  re- 
mained in  a  sort  of  perpetual  stupor,  his  eyes 
often  raised  to  heaven,  ,as  if  calling  upon  it  to 
witness  his  sufferings  and  to  accept  them  as  an 
offering.  He  did  not  bring  his  glance  down 
to  earth  except  to  let  it  rest  upon  Annabel  Lee 
with  gr.atitude.  It  was  the  first  time,  in  all 
her  trivial,  empty  existence,  that  the  young 
woman  found  herself  useful.  So  grateful  was 
she  to  Gwinett  for  awakening  that  realization 
within  her,  that  his  thankfulness  was  insigni- 
ficant in  comparison.  Dear  Annabel,  in 
white  linen,  entering  the  minister's  room,  with 
the  morning  light,  each  day  choosing,  before 
hand,  her  simplest  guimpes,  trying  hard  to 
strain  back  her  beautiful  curls,  even  to 

158 


SALT   LAKE  159 

twist  them  into  severe  little  braids,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  her  efforts,  failing  to  look  in  the 
least  like  a  deaconess.  Whenever  he  went  in- 
to the  sick-room,  Pere  d'Exiles  would  find  her 
bent  over  Gwinett,  her  golden  curls  almost 
touching  the  young  man's  brown  locks;  she 
would  be  giving  him  some  potion  or  other,  or 
making  his  pillows  comfortable.  He  allowed 
himself  to  be  cared  for,  smiling  gravely,  his 
emaciated  face,  always  so  carefullly  shaved, 
radiating  a  serene,  wonderful  beauty. 

One  morning  that  week,  the  mail  brought  a 
letter  to  Pere  Philippe;  it  was  dated  from 
Marysville  and  signed  by  Father  Rives,  the 
Superior  of  the  Order  in  the  diocese  of  Ore- 
gon, Utah  and  California. 

"/  received  your  letter  of  June  2Oth"  wrote 
the  Superior.  "According  to  the  plans  you 
outline,  you  must  have  left  Salt  Lake  City  a 
month  ago  and  at  the  present  moment  you 
must  be  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Humboldt 
River.  Lacking  your  new  address,  I  am 
sending  this  to  Salt  Lake,  from  where  I  hope 
it  will  be  forwarded  to  you  without  too  much 
delay.  .  ." 

What  followed  were  instructions  of  interest 


160  SALT   LAKE 

only  to  members  of  the  Order  and  relative  to 
the  evangelization  of  the  Shoshonee  Indians, 
on  the  progress  of  which  Pere  d'Exiles  was 
directed  to  report  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  Jesuit  slipped  the  letter  in  his  sash. 
He  had  turned  slightly  pale. 

"Parfait!"  he  muttered.  "I  can  evade  it 
no  longer.  This  drives  me  to  face  the  facts. 
Well,  so  be  it!  I  shall  begin  at  once." 

Having  decided  upon  the  time  and  the  place 
for  the  battle,  he  waited. 

It  happened  that  on  that  very  day  the  clergy- 
man was  authorized  to  leave  his  room  and 
come  to  the  table.  Luncheon  was  served,  as 
usual,  on  the  veranda.  The  weather  was 
fine  but  rather  cool.  Already  russet  leaves 
pierced  the  green  wall  of  the  bower  here  and 
there. 

"I  promise  you  a  nice  surprise  for  dessert," 
said  Annabel,  as  she  sat  down. 

During  the  meal,  she  was  gayer  than  she 
h,ad  ever  been  before  and  more  beautiful. 
The  Jesuit  contemplated  her  gaiety  and  her 
extraordinary  beauty  with  inquietude. 

As  Rose  was  setting  the  fruits  on  the  table, 


SALT   LAKE  161 

Annabel  exhibited  a  large  envelope,  with  an 
imposing  red  seal. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  is?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  well!"  thought  the  priest.  "The 
mail  seems  to  have  outdone  itself  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,"  pursued 
Annabel,  turning  to  Gwinett.  "Ah !  you  don't 
know  what  danger  you've  been  in." 

"Danger?"  said  the  minister  with  an  uneasy 
smile.  "You  are  joking." 

"Judge  for  yourself!  Eight  days  ago,  a 
letter  like  this,  came  addressed  to  you,  Mr. 
Gwinett.  I  opened  it.  Yes,  I  did!"  she 
said,  laughing.  "You  were  helpless,  pros- 
trated, incapable  of  reading.  And  I,  sus- 
pected more  or  less  what  such  an  official  docu- 
ment might  contain." 

"And  .  .  .  what  was  it  about?" 
"Need  you  ask?  It  was  an  order — and  a  for- 
mal order,  I  beg  you  to  believe, — for  you  to 
rejoin  the  army  at  the  Cedar  Valley  camp 
within  a  week.  A  wagon  was  to  come  for 
you.  I  took  my  pen  in  hand  and  I  myself 
returned  General  Johnston's  order  to  him 
with  a  few  lines  after  my  fashion." 


162  SALT   LAKE 

"You  returned  ...  1"  exclaimed  Gwinett, 
appalled. 

"Exactly!  And  by  the  next  mail,  here  is 
what  I  receive:  apologies  to  myself  and  a 
three  months'  leave  for  you,  dating  from  the 
day  when  the  medical  authorities  of  the  local- 
ity— that  means  Doctor  Codoman — will  have 
pronounced  you  convalescent." 

And,  triumphantly,  she  threw  the  letter  of 
the  General-in-chief  upon  the  table. 

Gwinett  seized  it,  read  it  carefully,  then 
with  a  hand  on  his  heart: 

"The  years,"  he  said,  "may  glide  by,  Mrs. 
Lee,  but  I  will  never.  .  .  ." 

Pere  d'Exiles  interrupted  him. 

"I  likewise  received  a  letter/'  he  said  with 
gravity. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Gwinett, 
thwarted  in  his  effusions,  strove  not  to  show 
any  resentment.  Annabel  was  less  mistress  of 
herself.  The  Jesuit  was  frightened  to  notice 
the  impatient  little  gesture  by  which  she 
manifested  her  regret  at  not  having  been  able 
to  hear  in  extenso  the  testimony  of  the  clergy- 
man's gratitude. 

"You  received  a  letter,  too?"  she  said  never- 


SALT   LAKE  163 

theless,  in  a  tone  which  denoted  the  most  com- 
plete indifference. 

"A  letter  from  my  Superior,  Father  Rives." 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "And  what  does  he  want 
of  you?" 

"He  asked  me  for  certain  information  about 
my  Idaho  mission,  which  I  should  have  sent 
him  a  month  ago.  I  must  depart." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  pained  surprise. 

"Already!"  she  murmured  with  an  accent 
of  unfeigned  regret. 

That  was  all. 

"Ah!"  s,aid  the  poor  man  to  himself.  "It 
wouldn't  have  occurred  to  her  to  open  the 
letter  addressed  to  me  and  write  immediately 
to  my  superior." 

Which  thought  made  him,  in  spite  of  all, 
smile. 

"True  that  as  for  me  I  am  not  a  sick  man," 
he  murmured. 

"A  sick  man," — he  repeated  the  words 
aloud,  with  a  laugh. 

The  minister  and  the  young  woman  ex- 
changed a  glance. 

"Are  you  sick?"   asked  Annabel  timidly. 

"I?"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  over  his  fore- 


164  SALT   LAKE 

head.  "Did  I  say  anything  like  that?  Oh, 
yes,  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  had  nothing  to  do 
with  our  conversation." 

He  had  regained  his  composure.  He  re- 
peated :  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

And,  addressing  the  clergyman: 

"Apropos  of  this  letter,  Mr.  Gwinett.  I 
would  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

"Apropos  of  what  letter,  sir?"  asked  the 
other. 

"Apropos  of  this  one  .  .  .  and  of  that 
one,"  said  the  Jesuit,  drawing  Father  Rives' 
letter  from  his  sash  and  placing  it  upon 
General  Johnston's  letter. 

"When  you  ple.ase,"  said  Gwinett. 

"Right  now." 

At  that  instant,  Annabel  arose  to  hunt  for 
something  on  the  side-board.  Pere  d'Exiles 
had  the  misfortune  to  misunderstand  her 
move. 

"You  may  stay,  Mrs.  Lee,  you  are  not  de 
trap,  on  the  contrary,"  he  said. 

"I  should  hope  so!"  she  uttered,  with  that 
haughtiness  which  from  time  to  time  changed 
her  entirely,  shaking  off  her  gentle  noncha- 
lance. 


SALT   LAKE  165 

"Indeed  it  would  be  extraordinary  if  Mrs. 
Lee  were  de  trop  in  her  own  house,"  put  in 
Gwinett  sweetly,  with  a  short,  obsequious 
laugh. 

"That  was  not  what  I  meant  to  say,"  the 
unlucky  man  was  about  to  reply  to  Annabel, 
but  the  clergyman's  insinuating  remark 
stopped  him  short.  He  started.  He  looked 
at  Gwinett.  The  two  men  measured  each 
other.  Then  Pere  d'Exiles  smiled.  The  hos- 
tile atmosphere  had  restored  his  self-control. 

Without  any  superfluous  skirmishing,  he 
carried  the  attack  into  the  enemy's  territory 
immediately. 

"How  do  you  feel  this  morning,  Mr. 
Gwinett?  It  seems'  to  me  you  are  much 
better." 

It  was  Annabel  who  responded. 

"Much  better!  Where  are  your  eyes? 
You  should  have  been  there  a  moment  ago 
when  he  had  to  get  up.  He  was  so  weak  that 
he  almost  fell.  I  was  obliged  to  qall  Rose  to 
help  me  carry  him  here,  wasn't  I,  Rose?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  mumbled  the  negress,  who 
was  trembling. 


166  SALT   LAKE 

"It's  strange,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"What  is  strange  in  that?"  asked  the  young 
woman  almost  aggressively. 

The  clergyman  motioned  to  her  to  be  calm. 

"Might  I  dare  to  beg  of  you,  dear  Madam, 
to  allow  Monsieur  to  formulate  his  thoughts 
precisely  and  without  any  reservations?" 

He  repeated,  weighing  each  syllable  care- 
fully: 

"Without  any  reservations." 

"I  had  that  intention  when  I  began  to 
speak,"  said  the  Jesuit  courteously.  "I  prom- 
ise you  that  you  are  going  to  be  satisfied." 

He  poured  himself  a  glass  of  water. 

"Today  is  the  eleventh  of  August,"  he  said. 

"It  is  a  fact,"  admitted  Gwinett. 

"And  you  did  Mrs.  Lee  the  honour  of  taking 
sick  in  her  house  the  second  of  July.  Exactly 
a  month  and  nine  days  have  passed.  I  am 
accurate,  if  anything.  Well,  sir,  a  minute 
ago,  when  I  used  the  word  'strange'  in  connec- 
tion with  your  illness,  I  expressed  myself 
badly,  or  rather,  I  expressed  an  altogether 
personal  opinion  on  a  certain  point.  I  admit 
that  there  is  another  adjective  that  suits  the 
circumstances  better." 

"And  pray  what  is  it?" 


SALTLAKE  167 

"Inopportune,  sir." 

"If  I  understand  you,"  s.aid  Gwinett  with 
perfect  calm,  "reserving  your  opinion  on  the 
nature  and  origin  of  my  illness,  for  the  present, 
you  only  wish  to  consider  its  recurrences.  In 
that  respect,  you  declare  it  to  be  inopportune" 

"Just  so,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "It  is  a  real 
pleasure  to  argue  with  you." 

"Inopportune.  There  are  three  people 
assembled  here.  Surely  it  is  not  from  the 
standpoint  of  my  own  interests  that  you  find 
this  illness  inopportune?" 

"You  wouldn't  like  us  to  think  so,"  said 
Pere  d'Exiles  with  the  most  disdainful  of 
smiles. 

Gwinett  did  not  flinch. 

"From  the  standpoint  of  yours,  perhaps?" 
he  insinuated. 

The  Jesuit  merely  accentuated  the  disdain 
in  his  smile.  Gwinett  paled  slightly. 

"No?  In  that  case,  there  is  no  doubt. 
You  mean  that  Mrs.  Lee's  interests  are  men- 
aced by  the  prolongation  of  my  sojourn  in 
this  house." 

"You  have  it,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  simply. 

Annabel  made  an  attempt  to  interfere. 
The  clergyman  stopped  her  once  again. 


168  SALT   LAKE 

"I  beg  of  you,  Mrs.  Lee.  I  fear  nothing 
and  I  am  able  to  defend  myself." 

He  paused. 

"I  might,  sir,  recall  to  you  that  I  was 
introduced  into  this  house  under  your  own 
auspices.  But  I  myself  loathe  arguments 
ad  hominem.  Can  you  tell  me  how  my 
presence  can  be  derogatory  to  Mrs.  Lee's 
interests,  interests  by  the  way,  which  the  most 
elementary  gratitude  render  just  as  precious 
to  me  as  they  may  be  to  you,  I  assure  you?" 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "when 
I  brought  you  here,  I  calculated  that  your 
coming  would  hasten  Mrs.  Lee's  departure, 
instead  of  retarding  it.  I  hope  I  make  my- 
self perfectly  clear.  Had  I  guessed  that 
Lieutenant  Rutledge  would  go  aw.ay  before 
the  week  was  over  .  .  ." 

Annabel  blushed.  The  clergyman  made  a 
gesture  of  modest  protest. 

"Had  I  guessed  that,"  took  up  the  Jesuit 
with  emphasis,  "well,  dear  Mr.  Gwinett, 
in  spite  of  your  distress,  in  spite  of  "Lea 
Adieux  d'  Adolphe  Monod,"  in  spite  of 
Emerson  himself,  never,  do  you  hear  me, 
never,  and  I  put  it  so  plainly  that  it  cannot 


SALT   LAKE  169 

fail  to  touch  a  soul  so  prejudiced  against 
mental  reservations,  never,  never  could  you 
have  counted  on  me  to  set  your  foot  in  this 
house." 

"I  see,"  said  the  clergyman,  "you  indulge 
in  a  little  comedy  in  which  the  roles  are 
changed  today.  I  call  upon  Mrs.  Lee  to 
witness  such  proceedings.  But  how  can  I 
help  matters?" 

"You  can  go  away,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Your 
ministry  calls  you  back  to  your  soldiers." 

"Yours  has  been  calling  you  to  your 
Indians  much  too  long,"  said  the  preacher 
softly,  "that  you  should  use  such  an  argument 
against  me.  But  after  all,"  he  said,  raising 
his  voice  suddenly,  "what  right  have  you  to 
question  me  like  this?  Did  Mrs.  Lee  give 
you  that  right?  If  such  is  the  case,  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say.  Speak,  Mrs.  Lee, 
speak!"  he  cried  vehemently.  "A  minute 
ago,  I  begged  you  to  keep  silent.  Now  I 
implore  you  to  speak  out.  Tell  us,  did  you 
give  this  gentleman  leave  to  treat  me  so  shame- 
fully?" 

Annabel  remained  mute. 

"Sir,"    said    Pere    d'Exiles    heatedly,     "I 


i7o  SALT   LAKE 

have  that  leave,  indeed,  and  I  come  by  it 
rightfully.  I  was  instructed  not  to  leave  this 
place  until  the  lady  of  the  house  herself  had 
left  it.  Isn't  it  true,  Mrs.  Lee?" 

Annabel  did  not  answer. 

"What  danger  can  Mrs.  Lee  possibly  run 
here?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"Sir,"  said  the  Jesuit  ironically,  "let  me 
recall  to  you  that  you  yourself  were  assailed 
with  misgivings,  the  day  we  met  on  the  banks 
of  the  Jordan,  and  that  you  unbosomed  your- 
self to  me?  If  a  residence  in  Salt  Lake  City 
is  hardly  suitable  for  a  Methodist  minister, 
do  you  think  it  is  ideal  for  a  young  Catholic 
woman?" 

"In  turn  let  me  recall  your  answer," 
said  Gwinett  amiably.  <(  'Such  dangers  are 
within  ourselves.'  And  it  seems  to  me  it 
would  be  wronging  Mrs.  Lee  to  infer  that 
she  is  so  weak  .  .  ." 

"Sir!"  cried  the  Jesuit,  his  patience  gone. 

He  restrained  himself  again.  He  con- 
trived to  smile  once  more. 

"What  a  senseless  quarrel,"  he  said. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  more  profitable  to  face  the 
facts?  I  promised,  Mr.  Gwinett,  and  Mrs. 


SALT   LAKE  171 

Lee  knows  it  quite  well,  to  watch  over  her, 
to  help  her  get  away  from  S:alt  Lake  City. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  to  be  denied," — 
and  his  voice,  was  ineffable,  "that  your  con- 
dition makes  it  impossible  for  you  to  leave  the 
city  at  present." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Annabel  feelingly. 

"Well.  Isn't  there  a  way  of  solving  every- 
thing? Mrs.  Lee  can  go  away.  You  can 
stay  here.  Her  departure  does  not  necessi- 
tate yours.  Her  ministrations  are  precious, 
I  don't  doubt.  However,  there  must  be  no 
lack  of  nurses  in  Salt  Lake  City  capable  of 
taking  her  place,  if  not  as  assiduously  or  as 
devotedly,  at  least  as  efficiently.  It  seems  to 
me,  for  example,  that 'little  Sarah  Pratt  .  .  ." 

Pere  d'Exiles  had  spoken  in  all  innocence. 
He  did  not  catch  the  terrified  glance  that 
Gwinett  shot  him,  or  if  he  did,  he  did  not 
understand  its  significance. 

"Sarah  Pratt,  or  Bessie  London,  or  any 
other,"  he  continued,  "if  you  think  that  a 
man's  care  is  not  sufficient." 

"I  shall  never  be  an  obstacle  to  Mrs.  Lee's 
peace  of  mind,"  said  Gwinett  in  an  altered 
voice. 


i72  SALT   LAKE 

"I  never  doubted  it,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 
"So  then,  it  seems  to  me  that  all  our  difficulties 
have  been  smoothed  over." 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  the  Jesuit 
thought  the  battle  won. 

Then  Annabel's  clear,  trembling  voice 
was  heard,  saying: 

"I  shall  not  leave  this  house  until  this 
gentleman,"  and  she  pointed  to  Gwinett, 
"has  completely  recovered." 

"In  that  case,  you  will  stay  here  just  as  long 
as  he  wants  you  to,"  said  Pere  Philippe 
phlegmatically. 

"Sir,"  said  Gwinett  very  gently,  "perhaps 
you  are  overstepping  bounds." 

"You  are,"  said  Annabel  Lee. 

The  minister  understood  that  without  a 
doubt  the  moment  had  come  to  show  his  hand. 

"I  presume,  Mrs.  Lee,"  said  he,  "that  from 
now  on,  you  deem  my  presence  under  this 
roof  incompatible  with  this  gentleman's." 

"It  couldn't  possibly  be  otherwise,"  said 
Pere  d'Exiles  assured  of  his  victory  at  that 
moment. 

"It  is  for  Mrs.  Lee  to  decide,"  said  Gwinett, 
who  had  a  trump-card  unknown  to  his  adver- 
sary up  his  sleeve. 


SALTLAKE  173 

Annabel  lowered  her  head  without  answer- 
ing. 

Pere  d'Exiles  turned  very  pale. 

"Didn't  you  hear?"  he  asked  harshly  this 
time. 

She  looked  at  him  with  pleading  eyes,  with 
the  eyes  of  a  trapped  animal.  But  she  per- 
sisted in  her  silence. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "Very  well.  That's 
enough.  I  understand." 

He  repeated: 

"I  understand!" 

He  arose. 

"In  a  few  hours,  Mrs.  Lee,"  he  said,  "your 
tacit  wish  shall  be  granted.  You  will  be 
relieved  of  my  presence." 

And  he  left  the  room. 

Alone  with  the  young  woman,  Gwinett 
became  faint.  He  staggered,  almost  fell. 

She  rushed  to  him,  supported  him  in  her 
arms,  helped  him  to  a  seat. 

"What  a  horrible  scene,"  she  said,  trem- 
bling violently. 

"Oh!  you  aren't  angry  with  me,  tell  me, 
you  aren't  angry  with  me?" 

"Be  angry  with  you,  dear  angel,  dear  angel 


174  SALT    LAKE 

of  God!"  murmured  the  clergyman  feebly. 

And  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

When  Francis  of  Xavier,  summoned  by 
Ignatius,  bedridden  and  ill,  was  informed 
that  he  had  just  been  appointed  to  evangelize 
the  azure  cities,  those  pearls  of  the  Orient, 
Melind,  Tuticorin,  Meliapur,  he  returned 
to  his  cell,  his  heart  overflowing  with  joy. 
He  prepared  his  portmanteau  .  .  .  Meliapur, 
Tuticorin,  Melind,  and  also  the  Goa  of 
Albuquerque!  A  Claude,  a  Gwinett,  in  the 
iridescent  by-ways  of  those  mysterious  cities, 
would  be  like  a  man  wearing  spectacles  and  a 
frock-coat  in  a  troupe  of  beautiful,  naked 
bayaderes. 

But  a  Saint  Francis  would  not  be  incon- 
gruous there,  nor  anywhere  else,  no  more  so 
than  a  Pere  d'Exiles  by  the  cosy  bedside  of 
an  Annabel  Lee. 

Like  Saint  Francis  in  his  Roman  cell,  Pere 
Philippe  began  to  straighten  out  his  affairs. 
The  dingy  valise  containing  the  demountable 
altar  received  his  first  careful  attention. 

Then  he  reviewed  his  personal  effects,  the 
threadbare  linen,  mended  and  re-mended — he 
took  a  picture  from  the  wall,  St.  Christopher, 


SALT   LAKE  175 

patron  saint  of  travellers,  he  placed  it  in  the 
pages  of  an  old  edition  of  Entretiens  Spirit- 
uels.  He  hesitated  a  long  time  before  a 
dozen  fine  linen  handkerchiefs,  a  gift  from 
Annabel  Lee.  At  first  he  separated  them 
from  his  belongings  and  left  them  on  a  corner 
of  the  table. 

"No,"  he  said,  "that  is  foolish  pride." 
He   took   back  six   and   distributed   them 
among  his  shirts. 

Then  he  began  a  letter  to  Father  Rives  in 
which  he  announced  his  departure. 

Behind  the  door,  for  some  time,  a  slight 
noise  had  been  going  on.  A  noise  of  sup- 
pressed sobbing. 

Pere  d'Exiles  went  to  the  door  and  opened 
it. 

It  was  the  negroes. 

On  her  knees,  Rose  was  weeping,  her  face 
buried  in  an  immense  red  handkerchief. 
Coriolan  stood  immobile,  his  head  bowed. 
Tears  fell  perpendicularly  from  his  eyes  and 
made  little  puddles  on  the  well  waxed 
floor. 

"Come  in,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 


176  SALT   LAKE 

He  shut  the  door  again. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

They  made  no  response,  except  to  cry 
louder,  unrestrainedly. 

"Has  your  mistress  spoken  to  you?" 

Incapable  of  answering,  they  made  a  ges- 
ture in  the  negative. 

"So  you  have  been  listening  at  doors?" 
asked  Pere  d'Exiles  harshly. 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Rose,  tearing  her  face  from 
her  handkerchief  all  of  a  sudden,  and  expos- 
ing a  countenance  swollen  by  tears.  "We 
listened  all  through  lunch!" 

Coriolan  repeated : 

"All  through  lunch!" 

Pere  d'Exiles  marvelled  at  the  pitiful  ani- 
mal instinct  in  these  unfortunates. 

"Well?"  he  contented  himself  with  asking 
nevertheless. 

"You  be  not  going  away, Monsieur  V  Abbe!" 
begged  Rose. 

"You're  not  going  away!"  repeated  Corio- 
lan. 

"I  must  go,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

At  that  there  was  a  cascade  of  tears  and 
lamentations. 


SALT   LAKE  177 

"We're  lost!  we're  lost!"  wailed  Rose. 

"Lost!  Lost!"  cried  Coriolan. 

"Never  more  see  St.  Louis  and  the  Mis- 
souri!" 

"Never  more  see  th'  Gasconnade  and  the 
blue  lanterns!" 

"Missus,  too,  lost,  lost!" 

Lost,  lost,  lost! 

That  terrible  word,  dinned,  hooted  into 
his  ears  by  the  negroes,  rang  out  tragically 
as  Pere  d'Exiles  gazed  at  his  small  parcels 
bound  with  string.  He  endured  a  second 
of  atrocious  agony. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  muttered. 

Then  he  pictured  Annabel's  unfriendly 
lips,  and  the  minister's  honeyed  smile. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried. 

The  six  handkerchiefs  were  piled  on  a  cor- 
ner of  the  table.  He  saw  them.  He  heard 
the  negroes'  redoubled  sobs. 

"Pride,  always  Pride!"  he  thought  with 
horror.  "Ah!  I  am  unworthy!" 

He  seized  the  maid  by  the  wrists  and 
raised  her  to  her  feet. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "Rose,  where  is  your  mis- 
tress?" 


i78  SALT   LAKE 

She  could  not  speak.  It  was  Coriolan  who 
answered. 

"Down  stairs.  Still  with  the  preacher  in 
the  long-tailed  coat." 

"Well,  will  one  of  you  go  and  tell  her,  go 
and  tell  her  .  .  ." 

"What?"  they  cried  in  chorus. 

"That  I  wish  to  speak  with  her,  that  I 
must  speak  with  her,  and  right  away,  here!" 

He  was  pale.     He  repeated: 

"Here,  here!" 

The  two  negroes  looked  at  each  other 
happily. 

"You  go!"  said  Rose. 

"No,  you  honey!"  said  Coriolan. 

"One  or  the  other,  as  you  please,"  said 
Pere  d'Exiles,  in  a  voice  which  nervousness 
rendered  terrifying,  "but  go  right  away, 
or  .  .  ." 

Rose  got  up  quickly.  They  heard  her 
hurry  down  the  staircase. 

There  was  a  moment  of  tragic  silence. 
The  Jesuit  looked  at  Coriolan.  The  poor 
wretch,  upon  his  knees,  was  praying. 

"She  does  not  come  back,"  murmured  Pere 
d'Exiles.  "Rose  does  not  come  back!" 

The  teeth  of  the  negro  chattered. 


SALT    LAKE  179 

"Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God  .  .  .  Holy 
Mary,  Mother  of  God!" 

The  Jesuit  went  to  the  door. 

"Ah!"  he  said. 

He  had  just  perceived  Rose,  huddling  on 
the  stairs. 

He  descended  a  few  steps,  helped  the  ne- 
gress  to  her  feet,  brought  her  back  into  the 
room. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  pray  for  us 
poor  sinners!"  repeated  Coriolan's  faltering 
voice. 

"Well?"  repeated  Pere  d'Exiles.  "Have 
you  seen  her?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  mumbled  Rose. 

"And  .  .  .  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  ...  oh,  sir!" 

The  Jesuit  seized  the  negress'  hand. 

"Speak,  Rose,  I  beg  of  you." 

"She  said,  she  said  that  Mister  Gwinett  has 
been  very  sick  .  .  .  that  she  isn't  going  to 
leave  him  .  .  .  but  that  later  on,  in  the  even- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  calmly. 
"Very  well." 

With  great  gentleness  he  said: 


i8o  SALT   LAKE 

"Rose,  Coriolan.  my  poor  friends,  vou 
must  leave  me.  Leave  me,  please.  It  is 
four  o'clock.  Coriolan,  you  must  go  to  the 
stable  and  give  Mina  some  oats.  She  will 
have  to  travel  all  night.  At  six  o'clock,  I 
will  come  to  the  stable,  at  six  o'clock.  Until 
then,  I  pray,  leave  me  alone.  See,  everything 
is  ready,  leave  me  alone." 

So  saying,  he  pushed  them  slowly  towards 
the  door.  They  went  out  staggering. 

Mina  was  a  grey  mule,  the  gift  of  a  poor 
German  immigrant  whom  Pere  d'Exiles  had 
attended,  and  who  had  died,  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  source  of  the  Humboldt, 
making  him  his  heir. 

In  her  time,  she  had  been  quite  a  trotter 
and  even  quite  a  remarkable  climber.  But  she 
was  growing  old.  And  moreover,  she  had 
just  had  a  year  of  perfect  repose  in  the  hand- 
some stable  of  the  villa,  by  the  side  of  Anna- 
bel Lee's  mare.  She  had  grown  much  fatter. 
When  the  time  came  to  saddle  her,  Coriolan 
was  not  able  to  do  so  until  he  had  pierced  one, 
two,  three  additional  holes  in  the  girth.  She 
suffered  his  attentions.  In  her  solid  little 
head  there  was  no  recollections  of  the  hard- 


SALT   LAKE  181 

ships  she  had  endured  first  as  an  immigrant's 
beast  of  burden,  then  as  a  mission- 
ary's. Neither  could  she  look  into  the  fu- 
ture. 

The  mare  was  heard  kicking  in  her  stall. 

"What  is  this?"  asked  Pere  d'Exiles,  coming 
up. 

He  pointed  out  to  a  small  bundle  strapped 
on  the  mule,  next  to  the  canvas  valise.  He 
felt  it.  It  contained  provisions.  A  large 
gourd  hung  from  the  saddle. 

The  two  negroes  lowered  their  heads. 

Rose  mumbled : 

"Come  heah,  Father." 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to  the 
dining-room.  A  meal  had  been)  prepared. 
A  solitary  chair  was  pulled  up  to  the  table. 
In  a  vase  drooped  the  flowers  that  had 
adorned  the  luncheon  table,  when  life  was 
still  so  familiar  and  so  beautiful. 

The  Jesuit  ate.  With  vexation,  he  noticed 
that  he  was  hungry.  Then  he  left  this  din- 
ing-room, to  which  he  was  destined  never  to 
return.  As  he  came  out  on  the  veranda,  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  black  line  of  the  roof, 
the  dark  hole  where  the  purple  martin  was 
about  to  awaken  from  the  sleep  of  a  melan- 


i82  SALT   LAKE 

choly  twilight  bird.  Coriolan  was  waiting  at 
the  garden  gate,  holding  Mina  by  the  bridle. 
Pere  d'Exiles  took  the  reins  from  him. 

"Adieu!"  he  said. 

The  two  negroes  cried  no  longer.  They 
knelt. 

"My  poor  friends!"  said  the  Jesuit. 

Leaning  over,  he  blessed  them. 

"Come  along,  Mina,  come  along." 

And  he  was  gone. 

The  Odgen  road  seemed  too  direct;  futher- 
more  he  was  afraid  of  meeting  people  with 
whom  he  would  have  to  exchange  greetings. 
He  turned  off  the  road  and,  obliquing  to  the 
left,  proceeded  to  canter  across  the  desolate 
waste  which  borders  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
lake. 

The  sun  was  setting  swiftly  over  the  blue 
waters.  A  light  breeze  hemmed  the  water's 
edge  with  a  ruffle  of  pallid  foam. 

The  dreadful  arid  banks  ran  into  the 
unseen  distance  to  the  North,  here  and  there 
streaked  by  trails  of  salt,  whitish  like  a  leper 
or  reddish  where  they  reflected  the  sinking 
sun. 

Nothing,  not  a  blade  of  grass,  not  a  weed, 
not  a  shell.  Alone,  occasionally  came  a  stray 


SALT    LAKE  183 

gull  or  a  bittern  beating  his  wings  awkwardly, 
then  flying  away  with  a  harsh  cry.  In  one 
place,  three  or  four  fish  floated,  belly  upwards, 
in  the  stagnant  water  of  a  shallow  brook. 
Unmindful,  they  had  allowed  themselves  to 
be  carried  along  by  the  fresh  water  and  little 
by  little,  the  fresh  water  had  become  briny. 
Salt  Lake  had  killed  them. 

Pere  d'Exiles  pursued  his  way.  As  the 
sun  descended  towards  the  horizon,  the  man's 
shadow  and  the  beast's  lengthened  to  the 
rignt)  grew  gigantic. 

"In  half  an  hour,"  thought  the  Jesuit,  "it 
will  be  dark." 

Then  there  was  another  wan  brooklet,  with 
more  dead  fish.  So  salty,  so  dense,  so  unlike 
our  beloved  European  brooks  was  the  water 
that  Mina's  hoofs  raised  no  splashes  as  she 
waded  across.  All  around,  everywhere,  there 
was  a  light  brown  dust  now,  the  dust  of  dead 
locusts.  Having  ravaged  the  harvests  of  the 
Later-Day  Saints  the  summer  before,  they, 
too,  had  come  as  far  as  this,  and  Salt  Lake  had 
killed  them. 

Then,  in  a  flash,  all  of  a  sudden,  Pere 
d'Exiles  realized  how  atrocious  was  this 
country,  how  atrocious  the  destiny  of  the  little 


184  SALT    LAKE 

creature  he  was  leaving  behind.  The  sun 
had  sunk  into  the  dead  sea.  Blue  shadows 
crawled  out  everywhere,  conquered  the  sky, 
drove  out  the  glorious  colours  of  day.  Anna- 
bel! To  abandon  her  this  way!  He  trem- 
bled. For  a  second  he  wanted  to  turn  back, 
to  tear  her  away  from  her  execrable  fate,  at 
all  costs,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Come,  Mina,  come  on!" 

To  resist  the  temptation,  he  urged  her  on. 

But  the  mule,  ordinarily  so  gentle,  kicked. 
She  gave  a  low  groan.  To  the  rear,at  the 
same  time,  the  whinnying  of  a  horse  was 
heard.  The  mule  stopped  altogether.  The 
soft  thud  of  a  quick  gallop  on  the  sand  became 
distinct,  then  heavier  thuds — the  horse  had 
been  set  at  a  walk.  Pere  d'Exiles  began  to 
caress  the  mule's  neck  as  she  stood  motionless. 
He  was  really  steadying  himself  against  her. 

He  divined  that  it  was  Annabel,  but  he  did 
not  look  back. 

She  had  donned  her  riding  habit,  but  had 
not  wasted  her  time  putting  on  boots.  Her 
blonde  hair,  in  soft  locks,  floated  against  the 
dark  outline  of  her  wide  felt  hat. 

She  jumped  to  the  ground. 

"I  galloped,"  she  said. 


SALTLAKE  185 

Pere  d'Exiles  did  not  stir.  But  his  support 
gave  way  suddenly.  The  mule  had  recog- 
nized her  friend  the  mare.  Nose  to  nose, 
with  snorts  of  joy,  the  two  animals  had  already 
renewed  their  mysterious  confidences. 

"I  galloped,"  took  up  Annabel.  "I  was 
afraid  that  I  would  not  overtake  you,"  she 
added  humbly. 

"It  would  have  been  simpler  to  save  your- 
self this  excursion,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "and 
to  have  told  me  what  you  had  to  say  at  the 
house.  About  four  o'clock,  Rose  furnished 
you  an  occasion  to  do  so." 

Annabel  lowered  her  head.  They  kept 
silent  for  a  few  minutes.  In  the  grey  sky, 
the  first  curlews  were  flying  by,  screaming. 

"Permit  me  to  continue  on  my  way,"  said 
the  Jesuit.  "I  am  anxious  to  be  in  Ogden 
before  midnight.  When  darkness  has  fallen, 
I  can't  go  so  fast.  Come  on,  Mina." 

"Let  me  go  a  little  way  with  you,"  mur- 
mured the  young  woman. 

"As  you  wish,"  he  replied. 

Pulling  their  mounts  by  the  bridle,  they 
walked  side  by  side  for  five  hundred  yards. 
The  last  gleams  of  daylight  were  playing 
upon  the  briny  pools  with  parting  sharpness. 


186  SALT   LAKE 

It  was  the  moment  when  the  earth  seems  paler 
than  the  sky. 

In  their  path,  come  from  I  know  not  where, 
a  little  bird  started  up,  a  pitiful  wag-tail.  He 
waited  until  they  nearly  stepped  on  him,  then 
he  flew  away  with  a  tiny  cry,  to  perch  himself 
a  little  farther  on,  to  wait  for  them  again,  to 
fly  away  again. 

At  last  Annabel  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  in  a 
voice  which  even  now  trembled  with  the  ter- 
rors of  the  night. 

"Why  are  you  leaving?" 

"As  it  is,  I  have  delayed  too  long,"  said 
Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Too  long!"  said  the  young  woman  dole- 
fully. 

"Yes,  too  long,"  he  repeated  harshly.  "I 
am  a  priest  .  .  .  they  are  waiting  for  me  yon- 
der." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  obscure  solitudes  of 
the  North. 

"You  leave  me  for  Indians!"  said  Annabel. 

"One  soul  is  as  good  as  another,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles,  ruthlessly.  "And,  besides,  I  like  to 
think  that  yours  is  not  in  danger." 

Finding  no  reply  she  murmured  once  more : 


SALT   LAKE  187 

"Why  are  you  leaving?" 

"And  you,"  he  asked,  "Why  are  you  stay- 
ing?" 

"You  know  very  well,"  she  said,  lower  still. 
"I  have  been  asking  myself  that  question  for 
the  past  two  months,  and  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  allow  him  to  finish  his  sentence. 

"I  have  accepted  a  task,"  she  said  weakly. 
"I  must  finish  that  task." 

"The  task  of  effecting  Mr.  Gwinett's  com- 
plete cure,  no  doubt?" 

She  did  not  answer.     She  nodded  her  head. 

"I  beg  of  you  to  be  a  little  sincere  with 
yourself,"  cried  Pere  d'Exiles,  almost  vio- 
lently. "Would  you  have  the  courage  to 
swear  that  your  scruples  as  a  nurse  alone  are 
keeping  you  in  Salt  Lake?" 

She  threw  him  a  look  of  unutterable 
suffering. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  do  you  think 
you  are  wholly  sincere  with  yourself,  when 
you  make  your  duty  as  a  missionary  responsible 
for  your  departure?" 

They  both  hung  their  heads,  he  crushed,  she 
shivering,  as  they  confronted  the  words  she 
had  dared  utter. 


i88  SALT   LAKE 

The  wag-tail  flew  from  under  their  feet 
with  his  lugubrious  weak  cry.  They  could 
hardly  distinguish  him  as  he  fluttered  down 
again. 

"I  am  cold,"  said  Annabel. 

"You  must  return,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"A  few  steps  more,"  she  pleaded. 

Before  them,  about  one  hundred  yards 
away,  the  path  they  were  following,  pale  in 
the  black  waste,  cut  another,  which  went 
towards  the  lake.  At  the  cross-roads  stood 
a  tall  sign-post,  dark  against  the  sky. 

They  realized  that  it  was  there  that  they 
would  separate.  Instinctively,  they  slack- 
ened their  pace. 

Very  soon,  they  reached  the  sign-post. 
It  was  a  rough,  square  stake,  which  bore  the 
sinister  Morman  eye,  crudely  daubed  on  each 
side.  The  wag-tail  had  perched  on  the  apex. 

He  allowed  them  to  draw  very  near,  uttered 
a  cry  and  disappeared  for  ever  into  darkness. 

Now  the  water-holes  around  them,  seemed 
to  be  filled  with  ink.  The  curlews  screamed 
louder,  but  were  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

"We  shall  part  here,"  said  the  Jesuit. 


SALT   LAKE  189 

She  remained  before  him,  mute,  arms  hang- 
ing limply,  a  poor  creature — adrift. 

"You  are  five  miles  from  your  villa,"  he 
said. 

He  denied  himself  the  atrocious  torture  of 
adding: 

"You  will  get  a  scolding." 

Ah!  beyond  the  desert  skies  and  the  flocks 
of  clouds  chased  by  the  wind  over  the  billow- 
ing sea,  is  there  not  a  place  where  minutes  as 
agonizing  as  these  shall  be  recompensed  by 
an  eternity  of  bliss  .  .  . 

Annabel  was  still  motionless. 

The  Jesuit  himself  adjusted  the  reins, 
arranged  them  on  the  mare's  neck,  pulled  at 
the  stirrups. 

"Go  now,"  he  said. 

"Help  me  mount,"  she  murmured. 

He  obeyed.  Then,  as  he  bent  over,  the 
young  woman  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

Near  midnight,  Pere  d'Exiles  perceived 
tiny  trembling  lights  at  the  edge  of  the  dark 
sky, — Odgen,  his  first  halting-place. 


190  SALT   LAKE 

Annabel  was  back  at  the  villa  about  eight 
o'clock.  She  went  immediately  to  the  min- 
ister's room. 

Reclining  on  a  chaise-longue,  he  was  smok- 
ing a  cigar.  He  smiled  when  he  saw  her 
enter. 

"Dear,  I  was  beginning  to  be  anxious,"  he 
said. 

She  blushed,  attempted  to  speak. 

"Don't  make  excuses,"  he  said.  "I  know 
where  you  have  been.  Don't  make  excuses. 
I  understand  your  sentiments  so  welll" 

He  caressed  her  soft  blonde  curls  with  his 
beautiful  brown  hand. 

"Kind,  always  kind,  almost  too  kind,"  he 
said. 

Annabel  burst  into  sobs. 

He  drew  her  to  him.  She  suffered  his 
embrace.  Still  smiling,  he  kissed  her  know- 
ingly on  the  neck,  at  the  roots  of  the  hair. 

She  shivered.     She  abandoned  herself. 

Gently,  he  pushed  her  away. 

"Hush,  dear  one,  hush!" 

She  looked  at  him  dully.     He  smiled  again. 

"We  have  serious  matters  to  talk  over,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

OVER  the  city,  the  rain  hung  its  grey 
veil,  waving  and  swelling  in  the 
wind.  Neither  the  sky,  nor  the 
mountains,  nor  the  trees  in  the  garden,  nor 
anything  in  fact,  could  be  seen. 

Annabel  left  the  window-pane  against 
which  she  had  been  leaning  her  forehead. 

After  ringing,  she  returned  to  the  center  of 
the  room.  Rose  appeared. 

"Has  Mr  Gwinett  returned?" 

"Not  yet,  ma'am." 

"Fix  some  hot  drinks.     He  will  be  soaked." 

"He  took  one  of  the  Colonel's  rain-coats, 
ma'am." 

"Go." 

As  the  negress  was  going  out,  Annabel 
recalled  her.  The  door  opening  into  the 
staircase  stood  ajar,  but  not  a  single  noise  rose 
from  the  dead  house. 

"Where  is  Coriolan?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  ma'am." 

IQI 


192  SALT   LAKE 

"Why  don't  we  ever  hear  you  singing  any 
more?" 

"Singing?" 

And  Rose  made  a  vague,  sad  gesture. 

"Yes,  singing.  Before,  you  used  to  sing 
all  the  time.  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  sing  any  more.  I  want  you  to  sing. 
Tell  Coriolan,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"All  right,  ma'am." 

"Leave  the  door  open." 

Rose  was  gone. 

Annabel  sat  down  in  front  of  a  small 
secretaire  whose  lid,  hanging  open,  was 
heaped  with  documents.  She  took  up  one, 
then  another,  at  random,  attempting  to  read 
them,  then  throwing  them  away  wearily. 
Nervously,  she  arose,  went  to  the  door. 

"Well,  Rose,  what  about  that  song?" 

She  repeated: 

"What  about  that  song?" 

A  voice  rose  then,  tremulous  and  infantile, 
a  voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  attic. 

"When  the  lanterns  are  green. 

The  light  is  green,  too; 

When  it  rains  on  the  lanterns. 
The  light  goes:  pschit,  pschitl" 


SALT   LAKE  193 

At  that  instant,  all  the  clocks  in  the  house 
struck. 

"Six  o'clock!"  murmured  Annabel.  "Not 
yet  September  and  it  is  dark  already!  Oh! 
it  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  it  got  dark  so  early 
^ast  year!" 

Steps  on  the  staircase.  Gwinett  entered 
the  room.  He  was  not  even  wet. 

She  came  to  meet  him.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  striving  to  huddle  against 
him.  "I  was  worried  .  .  .  you've  been  gone 
two  hours  .  .  ." 

He  smiled.     He  pushed  her  back  gently. 

"Soul  of  my  soul,  don't  bear  me  any  ill  will. 
You  will  forgive  me  when  you  see  what  I  have 
brought  back." 

He  had  opened  an  envelope;  he  displayed 
its  contents  on  the  table — about  a  dozen  folded 
leaflets. 

And  as  Annabel,  dumfounded,  silently  con- 
sidered this  fresh  flood  of  documents: 

"The  necessary  papers  for  our  marriage," 
said  the  minister  simply. 

He  added: 

"Everything  is  ready.     I  have  set  the  date. 


194  SALT   LAKE 

It  will  be  celebrated  the  second  of  September, 
in  eight  days." 

She  stood  there  without  a  word,  pale  from 
the  shock. 

"Well,  well,  dear  Anna,  is  that  all  the 
pleasure  this  news  gives  you?"  he  said  with 
an  accent  of  tender  reproach. 

She  started.  She  enveloped  him  in  a  long 
gaze. 

"Ah!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You 
wanted  it  to  be  so.  But  God  is  my  witness, 
and  you  know  it,  that  I  would  have  had  no 
need  of  these  formalities  to  belong  to  you  for 


ever." 


He  smiled.     He  took  her  hand,  kissed  it. 

"Dear  Anna,  the  God  that  you  invoke  knows 
that  I  love  you,  that  I  respect  you  too  much 
to  receive  you  from  Him  otherwise  than  in  a 
legitimate  union.  You  know  how  I  have 
struggled,  dear  heart,  against  myself,  against 
you  .  .  .  Could  you  think  of  blaming  me?" 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "You  are  a  saint. 
I  feel  unworthy  of  you ;  I  admire  you  as  much 
as  I  love  you.  But  eight  days  yet  ...  it  is 
a  long  time!" 

"Eight  days  will  pass,  they  will  pass  very 


SALT   LAKE  195 

quickly,"  said  Gwinett  in  his  beautiful  deep 
voice,  "and,  in  twenty  years  from  now,  when 
we,  white-haired,  will  remember  them  to- 
gether, they  shall  be  the  honour  and  the  sweet- 
est memory  of  our  lives." 

Sadly,  the  voices  of  the  negroes  droned  out 
according  to  orders: 

"When  the  lanterns  are  red, 
The  light  is  red  too.  .    " 

"I  disturbed  you,  perhaps,"  said  Gwinett, 
pointing  to  the  papers  scattered  on  the  secre- 
taire. "Were  you  working?" 

"I  was  trying  to,"  she  said,  "but,  alas!  with- 
out accomplishing  much.  What  you  see  there 
are  stocks  representing  my  husband's  estate. 
My  fortune!  I  blush  to  seem  preoccupied  by 
such  details  .  .  ." 

"Those  upon  whom  God  has  heaped 
worldly  goods,"  said  the  minister,  "  have  not 
the  right  to  go  against  His  wishes  neglect- 
ing the  responsibilities  of  wealth.  Therefore, 
I  do  not  censure  you." 

"I  have  still  less  right  to,"  said  Annabel 
reassured,  "since  part  of  this  fortune  is  des- 


196  SALT    LAKE 

tined  to  maintain  undertakings  for  the  sake  of 
which  both  my  father  and  my  late  husband 
lived  and  died.  That  is  why,  while  waiting 
for  you,  I  was  endeavouring  to  see  a  little  light 
in  the  midst  of  all  these  figures.  But  I  don't 
succeed  at  all  .  .  ." 

She  shrugged  with  discouragement. 

"Couldn't  you  help  me?" 

"I!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  start. 

"Well?"  she  said  anxiously. 

"To  begin  with,  I  lack  the  necessary  com- 
petence. And  then,  that  such  elements  should 
be  introduced  in  our  romance!  .  .  .  Anna, 
my  dear  Anna,  you  haven't  yet  understood 
how  I  love  you." 

Downstairs,  Coriolan  was  singing: 

"When  it  rains  on  the  lanterns, 
The  light  goes:  pschit,  pschit!" 

"Forgive  me,"  murmured  the  young  woman. 

"Forgive  you,  my  beloved?  Alas!  should 
I  be  angry  with  you  because  the  Lord  has 
endowed  you  with  riches!" 

"Oh!"  she  cried  passionately,  "if  I  thought 
that  my  money  could  bring  the  shadow  of  a 


SALT   LAKE  197 

shadow  between  us,  I  would  prefer,  at  this 
very  instant  .  .  ." 

She  had  seized  a  handful  of  green  and  blue 
certificates.  Nervously,  she  crumpled  them, 
kneaded  them,  ready  to  tear  them  to  pieces. 
At  last,  she  melted  into  tears. 

"I  have  already  made  you,"  she  said  in  a 
broken  voice,  "the  sacrifice  of  what  I  held 
dearest  in  the  world,  the  sacrifice  of  my 
religion.  You  can  imagine  that  beside  that, 
the  sacrifice  of  my  fortune  would  be  trifling. 
Do  you  require  it?  Do  you?  Ah!  I  would 
make  it  gladly!" 

"When  the  lanterns  are  yellow, 
The  light  is  yellow,  too." 

"How  unbearable  those  niggers  are!" 
muttered  Gwinett. 

He  closed  the  door,  then  returned  to  the 
young  woman. 

"Anna,  my  beloved,  it  is  for  me  to  beg 
your  pardon." 

He  had  taken  the  stocks  from  her  hands. 
Carefully,  he  unwrinkled  them,  flattened  them 
on  the  table. 


198  SALT   LAKE 

"You  have  just  given  me  a  lesson  in  humi- 
lity, Anna.  To  have  dared  to  speak  to  you 
so  rudely!  I  am  a  wretch.  You  must  for- 
give me.  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  Anna.  I  am 
going  to  help  you  put  some  order  in  these 
miserable  affairs." 

"You  are  a  saint,  you  are  a  saint  I"  she  re- 
peated. 

She  took  his  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"Oh,  dear  creature  of  God,"  he  cried,  "do 
not  lead  me  into  the  worst  of  temptations.  In 
eight  days,  with  the  consent  of  the  Almighty, 
you  shall  be  mine.  Have  pity  on  me  until 
then!" 

He  sat  the  trembling  woman  in  an  arm- 
chair, put  the  table  between  them,  the  table 
strewn  with  Colonel  Lee's  fortune. 

"Anna,  dear  Anna,  let  us  work,  since  you 
wish  it." 

"When  the  lanterns  are  black, 
The  light  is  black,  too." 

He  could  not  control  a  gesture  of  annoyance. 

Annabel  rang.     Rose  appeared. 

"Bring   the   lamp,"   said   her   mistress   to 


SALT    LAKE  199 

her    curtly.     "And    don't    sing    any    more." 

The  minister  proceeded  to  classify  the  cer- 
tificates rapidly. 

"So  much  money!"  he  muttered  in  dejection. 
"So  much  money!" 

He  looked  at  the  young  woman  and  smiled 
sadly. 

"Anna  dear,  the  very  size  of  this  fortune 
makes  it  my  duty  not  to  proceed  without 
recalling  to  you  the  exact  situation  of  him  to 
whom  you  have  plighted  your  troth,  in  whom 
you  have  placed  your  faith.  There  is  still 
time  for  you  to  reconsider,  dear  soul,  think 
of  it!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  do  I  mean,  Anna?  You  know 
already.  As  far  as  wordly  goods  are  con- 
cerned, I  have  none.  My  father,  a  venerable 
Illinois  pastor,  left  me  nothing,  but  the 
education  which  I  am  proud  of,  but  which 
I  don't  pretend  can  equal  the  riches  with 
which  I  find  you  overwhelmed.  Yesterday, 
Anna,  I  enjoyed  a  salary  of  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  a  year  as  an  army  chaplain. 
Today,  since  the  state  of  my  health  compels 


200  SALT   LAKE 

me  to  abandon  that  function,  I  have  nothing, 
do  you  hear,  nothing!" 

"Ah!  what  does  it  matter?"  cried  the  young 
woman. 

"What  does  it  matter,  Anna?  It  matters 
a  great  deal.  You  talk  like  the  noble  creature 
you  are.  But  every  one  will  not  talk  like 
that.  And  there  will  be  no  lack  of  people, 
my  beloved,  to  repeat  that,  when  he  married 
you,  the  Reverend  Gwinett  only  thought  of 
.  .  .  Oh!  shame,  shame!" 

"Let  them  come,  those  people!"  she  cried, 
setting  her  teeth  together.  "Let  them  come! 
They'll  see  .  .  ." 

"Child,"  said  the  minister  tenderly,  "you 
know  nothing  of  the  world." 

"So  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she 
sobbed,  clasping  her  hands. 

"You — nothing,  my  beloved,"  said  Gwinett. 
"It  is  for  me  to  act.  I  was  childish  myself 
a  few  moments  ago  in  giving  way  to  my 
repugnance  at  the  formidable  material  differ- 
ence in  our  respective  situations.  But  one 
gains  nothing  by  being  cowardly  in  face  of 
realities.  What  you  were  asking  me,  I  should 
have  asked  myself,  I  should  have  demanded 


SALT    LAKE  201 

the  right  to  draw  up  an  inventory  of  your  for- 
tune before  anything  else  was  done,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  that  fortune  could  have  the  de- 
testable power  of  separating  two  beings  obvi- 
ously destined  for  the  closest,  most  sublime 
union." 

He  had  taken  a  sheet  of  white  paper  and 
dipped  the  pen  in  ink. 

"Let  us  consider  this  hour  of  love  lost, 
dear  heart,"  he  said,  "as  the  ransom  which  the 
Lord  has  fixed  for  these  riches.  Let  us  bow 
to  His  divine  will  and  let  us  work." 

So  saying,  he  had  divided  the  sheet  of  paper 
from  top  to  bottom,  with  a  stroke  of  the  pen. 
On  one  side,  he  inscribed  a  word,  on  the  other 
another  word. 

"Let  us  proceed  in  order,"  he  said.  "On 
the  left,  here,  is  your  maiden  name,  O'Brien. 
On  the  right,  you  have  the  name  of  your 
deceased  spouse,  Lee." 

He  considered  the  white  sheet  contentedly, 
enlivened  the  dividing  line  with  arabesques, 
then  asked: 

"What  did  you  have?" 

"What?"  said  Annabel. 

"What  is  your  personal  property,  or  rather, 


202  SALTLAKE 

what  was  it  when  you  married  Colonel  Lee." 

"Why  I  had  no  dowry,"  she  said. 

He  smiled. 

"Dear,  artless  child,  artless  as  well  as  dis- 
interested. A  dowry  is  one  thing — property 
is  another.  I  know  you  had  no  dowry.  But 
isn't  there  something  coming  to  you  on  your 
father,  Colonel  O'Brien's  account,  possessions 
which  escaped  the  administration  of  your 
husband,  Colonel  Lee,  during  his  life-time 
and  which  are  exactly  what  the  laws  of  two 
continents  denominate  the  property  of  a  mar- 
ried woman?" 

"Possessions?"  said  Annabel.  "I  don't  re- 
member. Still,  yes!  There  was  the  castle, 
and  the  farms." 

"You  see  that  you  remember  after  all," 
said  Gwinett.  "When  we  work,  we  should 
work  carefully.  What  castle,  did  you  say?" 

"Castle  Kildare,  near  Maynooth,  in  Ire- 
land. A  castle,  that's  saying  a  lot.  Rather 
a  huge  mass  of  masonry,  with  the  left  wing 
razed  by  Cromwell's  soldiery  and  never  re- 
built, not  because  money  was  lacking,  but  to 
perpetuate  hatred  and  recollection." 

"That  country  has  queer  ideas  on  the  ad- 
ministration of  estates,"  said  Gwinett. 


SALT   LAKE  203 

"I  left  it  when  I  was  very  young,"  said 
Annabel. 

"I  know,  I  know.  And  is  the  castle  fur- 
nished?" 

"It  still  was  in  1842,  the  year  my  father  was 
executed.  Since  then,  I  have  been  away. 
That  is  all  I  know." 

"It  is  difficult  to  draw  up  a  satisfactory  in- 
ventory under  such  conditions,"  said  the 
pastor. 

"Forgive  me,"  murmured  the  young 
woman. 

"You  are  quite  forgiven,  Anna  dear.  And 
the  farms?  There  were  farms,  did  you 
say?" 

"Three,  I  think." 

"How  much  land?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  exactly.  I  only  know  that 
when  my  father  was  on  leave,  it  took  him  a 
whole  morning  to  go  over  it,  and  on  horse- 
back, at  that." 

"Well,"  said  Gwinett,  "that  represents  a 
considerable  domain — ten  thousand  acres  at 
least." 

"Just  about,"  said  the  young  woman.  "I 
remember  now,  from  ten  to  twelve  thousand 
acres." 


204  SALT   LAKE 

"If  we  consider,"  said  the  minister,  "that 
the  120,000  acres  of  the  Marquis  of  Lands- 
downe  bring  him  about  30,000  pounds  ster- 
ling, that  the  52,000  acres  of  the  Marquis  of 
Clanricarde  bring  him  20,000  pounds,  that  the 
70,000  acres  of  the  Count  of  Bantry  bring  him 
14,000  pounds,  we  can  allow,  in  calculating 
the  revenue  from  Irish  estates  by  the  ground 
they  cover,  an  average  income  of  three  and  a 
half  to  one,  and  we  reach  the  conclusion,  that 
in  the  case  we  have  before  us  .  .  ." 

"How  much  you  know!"  interrupted 
Annabel. 

"I  had  occasion  to  study  the  Irish  land- 
system,"  he  said  carelessly,  "in  connection  with 
a  work  I  was  preparing  on  the  resources  of 
the  Anglican  Church  on  that  island.  To 
return,  then,  to  the  amount  of  your  father's 
fortune,  we  must  conclude  that  he  enjoyed  a 
yearly  income  of  2,500  pounds,  that  is  to  say, 
a  capital  of  42,000  pounds  at  6%,  or  about 
$210,000  (I  adopt  the  dollar  once  for  all,  in 
order  to  sum  up  more  easily  when,  in  a  few 
minutes,  we  have  made  up  the  inventory  of  the 
estate  left  by  Colonel  Lee.)  In  the  left  col- 
umn, under  the  name  O'Brien,  I  shall  then 
inscribe  $210,000." 


SALT    LAKE  205 

He  nodded  with  satisfaction. 

"That  figure  is  somewhat  arbitrary,  per- 
haps, owing  to  the  lack  of  precision  in  the  ele- 
ments placed  at  our  disposal  to  establish  it. 
It  doesn't  matter,  however;  I  believe  that  we 
may  use  it  temporarily." 

"I  too,"  said  Annabel.  "And  besides,  what 
difference  does  it  make?" 

"How — what  difference  does  it  make?" 

"Why,  since  the  British  Court  condemned 
my  father  and  confiscated  his  estate  by  the 
same  sentence,  and  consequently,  the  fortune 
you  have  just  appraised  so  ingeniously  does 
not  belong  to  me  any  longer.  Under  those 
circumstances,  whether  the  figure  is  exact  or 
not  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  said  Gwinett,  vexed. 

He  added  ill-humouredly: 

"You  might  have  saved  me  all  these  use- 
less calculations." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said  sweetly,  "but  see- 
ing you  so  well  informed  about  Irish  affairs, 
I  presumed  you  knew  that  in  political  matters, 
a  sentence  of  death  entails  the  confiscation  of 
property." 

Gwinett  was  not  listening.  He  was  reflect- 
ing. He  asked : 


206          SALT   LAKE 

"Is  a  sentence  of  that  nature  always  irrevo- 
cable?" 

"What  sentence?" 

"Naturally  I  am  not  talking  about  the  one 
which  committed  Colonel  O'Brien  to  capital 
punishment,  since  it  was  carried  out,"  he  said 
ironically.  "I  am  talking  about  the  confisca- 
tion." 

"An  act  of  clemency  on  the  part  of  the 
Queen  may  intervene  and  arrest  its  effects," 
said  Annabel. 

"An  act  of  clemency  on  the  part  of  the 
Queen!"  said  the  clergyman.  "But,  my 
dear  Anna,  it  is  your  place  now  to  solicit  it!" 

"My  place!"  she  cried.     "Mine!" 

She  had  paled. 

"Do  you  know  what  one  must  do  to  obtain 
an  act  of  that  sort?  Do  you  know?" 

"I  suspect,"  said  the  minister  with  a  show 
of  impatience,  "that  one  would  not  obtain  it 
merely  by  addressing  an  insulting  letter  to 
Queen  Victoria.  I  think  that  .  .  ." 

She  cut  him  short. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  I  would  have 
to  do.  I  know!  My  father  and  my  husband 
recited  to  me  the  sordid  details  often  enough. 


SALT   LAKE  207 

In  Ballinasloe,  there  was  an  illustrious  Irish 
family — whose  name  I  shall  not  repeat,  out 
of  respect  for  the  dead — composed  by  the 
father  and  two  sons  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak.  The  father  and  the  older  son  were 
arrested  in  1837,  following  an  uprising 
against  the  Crown.  They  were  sentenced  to 
death,  executed,  and  their  fortune  was  con- 
fiscated. And  what  do  you  think,  two  or 
three  years  later,  the  younger  son  secured  the 
restitution  of  that  fortune,  on  the  condition 
that  he  enter  the  British  Army  and  don  the 
uniform  of  those  who  had  been  his  father's 
and  his  brother's  executioners.  What  have 
you  to  say  to  that?" 

"I  say,"  said  Gwinett  with  an  amiable 
smile,  "that  there  cannot  possibly  be  any 
question  of  your  donning  the  red  coat,  in 
which,  however,  you  could  not  fail  to  look 
charming." 

"Oh,  don't  sneer!"  she  said  with  a  shudder. 
"If  you  knew  the  language  of  the  letter  by 
which  one  has  to  beg  for  such  a  restitution, 
you  would  be  the  first  .  .  ." 

"For  the  sake  of  Heaven,  Anna  my  dear, 
don't  excite  yourself,"  said  he,  seizing  her 


208  SALT   LAKE 

hands.  "What  can  that  letter  contain  that's 
so  terrible!  An  offence  against  virtue,  against 
moral  laws,  against  the  respect  we  owe  our 
Maker?" 

"An    offence    against    honour,"    she    said. 

"Against  honour,  Anna?" 

"Yes  against  honour.  Don't  you  under- 
stand? Oh,  it's  certain  rthat  if  I,  Colonel 
O'Brien's  daughter,  the  rightful  mistress  of 
Kildare,  if  I  should  write  tomorrow  to  the 
Queen:  'Madam,  I  implore  you  to  return  my 
domain,  in  return  for  which  I  condemn 
everything  my  father  did,  all  that  he  lived 
for,  and  I  swear  to  you  that  you  will  not  have  a 
more  faithful  subject  than  Annabel  O'Brien' 
— it's  certain  that  I  would  immediately  enter 
into  possession  of  those  lands  which  give  you 
so  much  trouble  to  enumerate  and  that,  on 
top  of  it  all,  they  would  offer  me  the  hand 
of  some  Protestant  lord  from  Ulster  or  else- 
where." 

"Anna!"  exclaimed  the  minister. 

She  had  stopped  short. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said. 

"I  did  not  suspect,"  he  said  with  sorrowful 
dignity,  "that  you  harboured  such  a  deep- 


SALT   LAKE  209 

rooted  aversion  for  the  religion  to  which  I 
rejoiced  in  thinking  I  had  won  you." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Oh!  how  cruel  you  are!  Don't  you  real- 
ize how  completely  I  belong  to  you?  Is  it 
possible  that  an  unfortunate  remark  might 
make  you  doubt  it,  a  remark  that  I  deplore, 
that  desolates  me,  that  I  beg  you  to  forget?" 

"Anna,"  he  said,  "Anna,  if  such  were  the 
case,  I  would  be  unworthy  of  the  garment  I 
wear,  of  the  faith  which  is  mine  and  of  which 
I  judged  you  worthy,  my  sister.  Have  you 
sworn  always  to  misunderstand  the  true  nature 
of  the  sentiments  which  dictate  the  words  I 
address  to  you?  I  am  very  unhappy,  Anna, 
very,  very  unhappy!" 

"Oh!"  she  said  hotly,  "let  us  not  prolong 
this  scene.  What  was  I  thinking  of  to  set 
you  such  a  task?  Tomorrow  we  will  take 
these  stocks  to  some  cashier  in  the  Livingstone 
Bank  and  .  .  ." 

The  minister  shook  his  head  gently. 

"No,  Anna,  no.  I  cannot  accept  your 
magnanimity.  It  shall  not  be  said,  my  sister, 
that  the  first,  the  only  desire  you  have 
expressed  to  me  until  now,  found  me  unwill- 


2io          SALT   LAKE 

ing.  In  spite  of  a  distaste  that  I  ask  pardon 
for  not  having  known  how  to  hide  from  you, 
J  shall  obey,  Anna.  I  shall  work  at  this 
balance-sheet  until  it  is  finished.  Ah!  never 
did  Laban  impose  such  a  task  upon  Jacob!" 

With  infinite  lassitude,  he  had  placed  a 
handful  of  stock  certificates  before  him  and 
had  begun  the  reckoning. 

"I  put  down,"  he  explained,  "each  of  these 
stocks  in  the  right  column,  Colonel  Lee's. 
In  Colonel  O'Brien's  before  the  $210,000 
which  I  calculated  you  ought  to  inherit,  I 
place  an  interrogation  mark,  so  as  not  to  pro- 
long a  discussion  in  which  we  have  wounded 
each  other  so  grievously." 

She  was  about  to  speak. 

"No,  my  sister,  no,  don't  protest.  I  under- 
take the  enumeration  of  your  husband's  stocks. 
First:  one  hundred  shares  in  the  Deseret  Iron 
Company,  issued  at  one  hundred  dollars. 
Market  value  today,  five  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars.  I  inscribe  $55,000.  And  on  the  side 
I  place  the  letter  "k." 

He  explained. 

"Stocks  can  be  classified  in  three  categor- 
ies: keep,  watch,  liquidate.  Deseret  stocks 


SALT   LAKE  211 

are  absolutely  safe,  on  account  of  the  steady 
market  for  iron  as  well  as  the  prudence  with 
which  the  Board  of  Directors  proceeds.  The 
day  these  shares  reach  seven  hundred  dollars, 
we  shall  think  the  matter  over.  In  the  mean- 
while, I  write  'k' — keep." 

He  passed  to  another  sheaf  of  papers. 

"Humboldt  Creek.  Ten  shares,  issued  like- 
wise at  a  hundred  dollars.  Market  value, 
twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Total: 
$12,500.  In  spite  of  this  dizzy  climb,  I  don't 
hesitate  to  inscribe  the  letter  'k'  against  this 
item.  The  borax  beds  exploited  by  the  Com- 
pany lie  on  the  very  line  that  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment has  just  adopted  for  an  Atlantic  to 
Pacific  Railroad.  Only  it  will  be  necessary 
to  watch  over  the  directors  who,  it  seems  to 
me,  are  inclined  to  go  a  little  too  fast.  But 
we  have  a  deliberate  voice  in  the  assembly.1' 

And,  as  Annabel's  glance  spoke  her  aston- 
ishment, he  smiled. 

"My  knowledge  surprises  you!  What  do 
you  think  I  was  doing  during  those  long  days 
of  illness,  when  you  left  me  alone  with  the 
Deseret  News?  Thanks  should  be  rendered 
to  the  Lord,  since  reading  market  values  in 


212  SALT   LAKE 

that  paper  helps  me  to  come  to  your  assistance 
today.  God  is  our  Shepherd,  Anna.  His 
word  is  written  everywhere,  for  those  who 
know  how  to  read  it  ...  Manti-Coals,  we 
will  put  third.  Twenty-two  shares — what 
a  queer  number — issued  at  fifty  dollars. 
Market  value:  sixty- four;  so,  $1,308.  Keep 
— seeing  how  unimportant  the  investment  is. 
But  still,  I  do  not  conceal  that  I  have  not  a 
tremendous  confidence  in  the  future  of  those 
mines,  even  if  they  do  claim  that  the  coal  they 
get  there  is  as  good  in  quality  as  the  coal  in  the 
Alleghanys.  Keep  just  the  same.  On  the 
contrary,  I  inscribe  'liquidate'  without  a 
shade  of  hesitation  on  this  block  of  New  Leb- 
anon shares,  called  Number  Four  in  the  mem- 
orandum hereunto  annexed.  By  the  way, 
this  memorandum  has  been  drawn  up  very 
conscientiously  and  has  proved  already  most 
useful  to  me." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Annabel.  "It  was  Pere 
d'Exiles  who  began  it,  at  my  request." 

Astonished  at  the  silence  which  followed 
her  words,  she  raised  her  eyes.  She  was 
reassured.  Imperturbable,  Gwinett  was  pur- 
suing his  labours. 


SALT   LAKE          213 

"Fifth,  forty  shares  of  Green  River.  More 
certificates  payable  to  the  bearer!  As  a  rule, 
Anna,  it  is  not  very  wise  to  keep  such  a  large 
amount  of  stock  of  that  kind  in  one's  posses- 
sion. It  becomes  dangerously  imprudent 
when,  as  is  your  wont,  one  authorizes  the  first 
comer  to  meddle  with  and  finger  over  such 
securities." 

"The  first  comer!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Anna." 

"But  there  have  been  only  you  and  Pere 
d'Exiles  who  have  looked  after  these  affairs!" 

"I  don't  want  to  distress  you,  Anna.  But 
why  must  you  pronounce  that  name  again, 
that  name  which  fills  me  with  bitterness!" 

"How  is  that?"  she  said,  somewhat  op- 
pressed. 

"Yes,  my  sister,  which  fills  me  with  bitter- 
ness, in  constraining  me  to  remember  what  I 
attempt  unceasingly  to  forget,  the  desolating 
ingratitude  that  is  the  foundation  of  human 
nature.  What,  Anna!  There  is  a  man 
who  has  lived  in  your  house  more  than  a  year, 
living  off  you,  any  one  else  would  say.  It  is 
already  three  weeks  ago  since  he  took  leave  of 
you,  and  how  rudely!  God  forbid  that  I 


214          SALT   LAKE 

dwell  upon  the  subject!  And  since  then,  my 
sister,  not  the  least  sign  of  an  apology,  not 
the  least  sign  of  any  thanks,  not  the  least 
word  ..." 

"Please  let's  not  talk  about  that  any  more," 
she  said  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"As  you  will,  Anna." 

A  half  an  hour  later,  the  clergyman  drew 
the  final  line  under  the  column  of  figures  sur- 
mounted by  Colonel  Lee's  name  and  pro- 
ceeded to  sum  up. 

"One  hundred  and  forty  five  thousand 
dollars  capital,  at  market  value,"  he  said.  "At 
six  per  cent,  this  represents  for  you  a  net  in- 
come of  $8,700." 

"Net,"  she  said,  "no.     There  is  this." 

She  opened  an  envelope  and  showed  him  a 
paper. 

"What,  what  is  this?"  he  asked,  knitting  his 
eyebrows  slightly. 

"This  is  Colonel  Lee's  last  will  and  testa- 
ment," she  said.  "He  leaves  me  mistress  of 
his  fortune,  under  condition  that  I  contribute 
the  sum  of  $4,000  yearly  to  the  White-Boy 
Relief  Fund." 


SALT   LAKE  215 

"Four  thousand  dollars  for  the  White- 
Boys!"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven. 
"My  sister,  do  you  know  what  the  White-Boys 
are?" 

"I  do,"  she  responded.  "It  is  the  Irish 
revolutionary  society  to  which  both  my 
father  and  my  husband  used  to  belong." 

The  minister  looked  serious. 

"Anna,  I  have  no  right  to  judge  your  con- 
duct. But,  a  while  ago,  when  you  told  me 
the  story  of  that  Irish  family  in  Ballinasloe,  I 
heard  you  through.  In  turn,  I  may  be  per- 
mitted, I  suppose,  to  tell  you  a  tale,  a  brief 
tale,  and  you  will  listen,  my  sister.  It  was 
ten  years  ago.  One  of  my  good  friends,  the 
Honourable  Arthur  Tumulty,  happened  to  be 
in  London  on  a  short  visit.  From  a  bench  in 
Soho  Square,  he  was  ecstatically  watching 
the  gambols  of  the  charming  babies  who  love 
that  popular  garden.  It  was  a  scene  of  calm, 
peaceful  happiness  and  content  with  the 
world.  Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  Hon- 
ourable Tumulty  as  he  offered  thanks  to  the 
Lord.  Suddenly,  a  horrible  red  flame  shot 
up,  followed  by  a  frightful  explosion.  Tu- 
multy was  hurled  to  the  ground.  When  he 


216  SALTLAKE 

picked  himself  up,  mothers  were  fleeing  in 
all  directions  and  on  the  lawn,  in  a  pool  of 
blood  which  the  black  earth  was  drinking  in, 
there  were  four  corpses  of  children,  atro- 
ciously disfigured.  The  White-Boys  had 
gone  by!" 

Annabel  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  murmured. 

"What  you  wish,"  said  Gwinett  coldly. 
"Once  again,  it  is  not  for  me  to  dictate  your 
duty  to  you.  But  in  case  you  should  begin 
to  see  a  light,  I  can  allay  your  scruples  by 
pointing  out  to  you  that  in  every  country  of 
the  world,  immoral  or  illegal  clauses  are 
rendered  null  and  void  by  the  law." 

"Let's  not  talk  about  this  any  more.  Let's 
not  talk  about  this!"  she  said.  "Oh!  let's  go 
downstairs,  let's  get  out  of  here!" 

She  had  arisen.     He  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"We  are  not  at  the  end  of  the  task  that  we've 
assigned  ourselves,  Anna.  We  have  finished 
with  your  personal  property.  But  there 
remains  the  villa." 

"It  cost  $16,000,"  she  said. 

"It's  worth  $25,000  today.  I  write  $25,000. 
And  the  furniture?" 


SALT   LAKE          217 

"I  have  no  idea  what  it's  worth." 

"It's  worth  about  as  much.  I  write 
$25,000.  And  your  jewels?" 

She  did  not  answer.     He  put  down  a  figure. 

"And  lastly,  there  are  the  negroes." 

"Rose  and  Coriolan!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  are  insane!" 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
unutterable  sorrow. 

"I  am  a  native  of  the  Northern  States,  my 
sister,  and  I  suppose  you  know  what  those 
States  think  about  slavery,  atrocious  institution 
that  it  is!  But,  Anna,  we  cannot  help  that 
we  are  living  in  Southern  territory  at  the  pres- 
ent moment,  under  laws  that  authorize  that 
abomination.  You  cannot  help  that  your  two 
black  servants  are  subject  to  the  economic  law 
which  administers  chattels.  A  legally  es- 
tablished inventory  ought  to  furnish  a  state- 
ment of  the  sum  they  represent.  What  did 
you  pay  for  them?" 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "I  won't  answer  you!  I 
don't  want  to  answer  you!  I  have  enough 
of  all  these  awful  things." 

He  smiled  sorrowfully. 

"Anna,"  said  he,  "Anna,"  and  there  were 


218  SALT   LAKE 

tears  in  his  voice.  "Don't  you  think  I  was 
right  when  I  begged  you  to  spare  me  the 
thankless  task  of  meddling  with  your  finances? 
Ah!  I  knew  only  too  well  what  an  execrable 
power  money  has  to  make  instantaneous  adver- 
saries of  the  most  devoted  friends." 

She  was  crying,  unable  to  answer.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

She  smiled. 

"I  am  an  ungrateful  wretch,"  she  said. 
"But  let's  not  stay  here  any  longer,  I  am 
suffocating — let  us  go  down." 

"I've  finished,  Anna,  I've  finished.  There 
is  only  the  general  total  to  add  up." 

"Go  ahead,"  she  said.  "But  I  cannot  help 
you  any  more.  I  am  utterly  incapable  of 
it" 

On  the  coat  which  Gwinett  had  taken  off 
upon  entering,  there  lay  a  book,  a  book  bound 
in  black,  with  a  gold  cross  on  the  cover. 
Annabel  picked  it  up  and  began  to  glance 
through  it,  while  she  was  waiting  for  him  to 
finish. 

It  was  a  volume  of  two  hundred  and  forty- 
three  pages,  printed  the  year  before  in  Liver- 


SALT   LAKE          219 

pool.  The  title  was:  "Compendium  of  the 
Faith  and  Doctrines  of  the  \Latter-Day 
Saints." 

Gwinett  arose.     He  had  finished. 

"Well,  well!"  she  said,  holding  out  the  book 
to  him  with  a  smile,  "so  now  you  have  taken  to 
reading  Morman  literature!  These  silly 
things  must  be  highly  entertaining  to  a  learned 
man  like  you." 

"Dear,"  he  said  gravely  as  he  took  the  book 
from  her  hands,  "sincere  belief  should  never 
excite  derision." 

She  looked  at  him,  slightly  nonplussed. 
But  he  had  often  puzzled  her  before  and  each 
time  she  only  loved  him  the  more. 

They  were  married,  as  the  minister  had 
announced,  on  the  second  of  September. 
Annabel  had  expressed  a  desire  that  the  cere- 
mony take  place  after  sunset  and  without  any 
onlookers,  except  the  required  witnesses.  She 
left  the  matter  of  choosing  them  to  Gwinett. 

Toward  five  o'clock,  darkness  had  filled 
the  dining-room,  where  Rose  served  the  pair 
a  collation.  Outside,  they  heard  the  rain 


220  SALT   LAKE 

which  had  been  pouring  steadily  for  a  week. 
The  room,  lighted  by  a  single  candle,  was 
gloomy.  On  the  side-board,  a  red  rose  in  a 
vase  of  crystal,  swung  back  and  forth  each 
time  the  door  opened. 

Gwinett  arose.  They  went  out.  Coriolan, 
carrying  an  umbrella,  escorted  them  to  the 
road.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents. 

A  carriage  awaited  them.  They  climbed 
in.  The  horses  set  off.  Of  the  nocturnal 
landscape  shut  out  by  the  lowered  hood,  noth- 
ing could  be  seen,  but  the  yellow  swollen 
waters  of  the  ditches  rushing  along,  ruffled  by 
the  wind,  beneath  the  misty  moon. 

Annabel  sought  the  pastor's  hand  and 
pressed  it  to  her  heart. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  murmured.  "You  omit- 
ted to  instruct  me  in  my  new  religion.  I  have 
never  set  foot  in  one  of  your  churches.  Aren't 
you  afraid  I'll  be  awkward?" 

He  answered  evasively. 

"Our  religion  is  a  religion  of  the  soul.  It 
dispenses  with  all  empty  popish  mummeries. 
Set  your  mind  at  rest." 

"Where  is  the  church  where  we  are  going 
to  be  married?" 


SALT   LAKE  221 

"Near  Social  Hall." 

She  dared  not  disturb  the  train  of  his 
thoughts  by  questioning  him  any  further. 

They  alighted  from  the  carriage  in  front 
of  a  side  door.  There  were  steps  to  go  down. 
They  entered  a  vaulted  room.  Four  men 
were  there,  warming  themselves  by  a  coke 
fire. 

"You  are  late,  Brother  Jemini,"  said  the 
oldest  of  the  four,  who  was  also  the  tallest. 

"I  apologize,  Brother  Murdock,"  said 
Gwinett  humbly.  "The  horses  were  slow 
on  account  of  the  rain." 

He  turned  around  and  taking  the  young 
woman  by  the  hand,  he  drew  her  within  the 
luminous  circle  made  by  a  lamp  placed  on 
the  mantel-piece. 

"This  is  Sister  Anna,  Brethren,"  he 
said. 

She  bowed  slightly.  The  four  men  did  not 
stir.  They  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Out  of 
the  four,  she  only  knew  one,  a  certain  John 
Sharpe  who,  she  remembered  vaguely,  worked 
at  the  Marriage-License  Bureau. 

"Let  us  begin,"  said  Brother  Murdock  at 
last.  "The  honour  is  yours,  Brother  John." 


222  SALT   LAKE 

Little  John  Sharpe  took  the  big  book  on 
which  he  had  been  sitting. 

"Come  here!"  he  snuffled. 

He  opened  the  book.  All  the  onlookers 
arose. 

Brother  John  began  to  read. 

"Brother  Jemini,  do  you  take  Sister  Anna 
by  the  right  hand  to  make  her  yours,  to  be 
your  legitimate  wife,  and  you  to  be  her  legit- 
imate husband,  for  now  and  for  all  eternity, 
with  a  pledge  and  a  promise  on  your  part  to 
fulfill  all  the  laws,  ceremonies  and  command- 
ments pertaining  to  marriage  in  this  new  and 
immortal  covenant — doing  so  in  the  presence 
of  God,  the  Angels  and  these  witnesses,  of 
your  own  free  consent  and  of  your  own  free 
will?" 

"I  do,"  responded  Gwinett. 

"Sister  Anna,"  continued  Sharpe,  "do  you 
take  Brother  Jemini  by  the  left  hand  .  .  ." 
and  he  reeled  off  the  formula  once  more. 

"I  do,"  said  Annabel. 

"Sign  here,"  said  Sharpe.  "It  is  under- 
stood that  Brother  Joram,  here  present,  is 
witness  for  Brother  Jemini,  and  that  Brother 


SALT   LAKE  223 

Phanuel,  here  present  too,  is  witness  for  Sister 
Anna." 

They  signed ;  Brother  Murdock  was  the  last 
to  affix  his  flourishing  signature  at  the  very 
bottom  of  the  page. 

"You  may  withdraw,  Brother  John,"  he 
said  to  Sharpe.  "We  have  no  further  need  of 
you.  Sister,  Brethren,  will  you  please  pass 
into  the  next  room  with  me?" 

They  followed  him.  Murdock  shut  the 
door  carefully  after  them. 

Annabel  threw  a  hasty  glance  about  the 
place. 

It  was  a  vast,  whitewashed  hall,  with  a  rude 
table  in  the  centre.  A  cheap  lamp,  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling,  diffused  its  oily  light 
on  the  assembly. 

"This  is  for  you,  my  sister,"  said  old  Mur- 
doch, pointing  to  a  long  tunic  of  white  mus- 
lin on  the  table. 

"For  me?"  she  said. 

"For  you.  It  is  the  symbol  of  your 
approaching  redemption.  Will  you  do  me 
the  favour  of  putting  on  this  garment?" 

"Willingly,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 


224  SALTLAKE 

Attempting  to  put  it  on,  she  found  herself 
in  difficulties.  The  muslin  caught  in  the 
heavy  jet  buttons  of  her  jacket. 

Gwinett  and  Brother  Phanuel  assisted  her 
clumsily. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  easier  this  way." 

She  had  removed  her  jacket.  The  soft, 
pale  flesh  of  her  arms,  of  her  bare  throat 
showed  transparently  through  her  lacy  blouse. 

Old  Murdock  cleared  his  throat.  A  dis- 
quieting thrill  circulated  about  the  smoky 
room. 

Gwinett  jumped  up. 

"Put  on  your  jacket  again,"  he  said  nerv- 
ously. "Put  it  on  right  away!" 

Abashed  she  obeyed.  It  took  them  a  full 
five  minutes  to  succeed  in  tying  her  in  the  mus- 
lin sheath. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "let  me  remove  my 
hat.  How  foolish  I  must  look  like  this!" 

So  saying,  she  had  taken  off  her  wide  black 
felt  hat.  (Her  tiny  gold  curls  gleamed.  The 
same  dubious  thrill  began  to  circulate. 

"Put  on  your  hat!"  cried  Gwinett  impa- 
tiently. 

She  obeyed   once   again.     Somewhat  sur- 


SALT   LAKE          225 

prised,  she  watched  Brother  Phanuel  tie 
around  her  waist  a  small  square  apron  em- 
broidered with  fig  leaves.  Then  old  Mur- 
doch, who  had  vanished,  returned,  himself 
garbed  in  a  long  white  linen  robe.  Then  they 
all  passed  in  a  group  into  a  third  chamber, 
smaller,  but  better  lighted  and  furnished  with 
'fairly  comfortable  arm-chairs.  There  was 
a  pulpit  against  the  wall.  Brother  Murdoch 
ascended  it. 

He  spoke  for  about  an  hour.  What  he  said, 
Annabel,  reflecting  upon  it  later,  never  could 
remember.  She  was  watching  Gwinett.  He 
sat  beside  her.  His  eyes  were  closed.  His 
hair  seemed  softer  and  bluer  than  usual,  his 
skin  more  olive,  his  beauty  more  perfect. 
And  what  an  expression  of  grave  serenity! 
O  God,  thou  couldst  not  bestow  gifts  so 
marvelous  upon  a  creature  not  altogether 
worthy ! 

The  two  witnesses  sat  behind  them. 
Brotiher  Phanuel,  afflicted  with  a  polypus, 
breathed  so  violently  that  on  several  occasions 
Annabel  might  have  thought  he  was  snoring. 
She  could  not  see  him  but,  turning  her  head 
a  little,  she  perceived  Brother  Joram.  The 


226  SALT   LAKE 

eyes  of  the  latter  were  roving  up  and  down 
the  young  woman's  bare  neck  with  an  expres- 
sion that  made  Annabel  tremble  with  shame. 

To  efface  that  hideous  vision,  she  forced 
herself  to  listen  to  Brother  Murdoch's  dis- 
course. At  random,  she  caught  an  offensive 
allusion  to  Rome.  "Oh,  yes!"  she  thought, 
"it's  true.  I  am  no  longer  a  Catholic."  No 
longer  a  Catholic!  She  repeated  the  words 
almost  audibly.  The  thought  astonished  her, 
and  that  was  all.  The  church  in  Kildare! 
The  Ursuline  chapel  in  St.  Louis!  .  .  .  No 
longer  a  Catholic!  Then,  suddenly,  she  re- 
membered Pere  d'Exiles,  and  she  barely  had 
time  to  turn  her  glance  upon  her  husband's 
implacable  profile  to  escape  an  agony  of 
remorse. 

At  that  moment,  his  homily  at  end,  Mur- 
dock  descended  from  the  pulpit  and  came  to 
them. 

He  took  her  right  hand  and  placed  it  in 
Gwinett's  left  hand. 

"Do  you  swear,"  he  asked,  addressing  the 
minister,  "always  to  be  for  her  what  Isaac  was 
for  Rebecca,  what  Boaz  was  for  Ruth,  what 
Joachim  was  for  Anna?" 


SALT   LAKE          227 

"I  do,"  answered  the  minister. 

"And  you,  my  sister,  do  you  swear  always 
to  be  for  him  what  Rebecca  was  for  Isaac, 
what  Ruth  was  for  Boaz,  what  Anna  was  for 
Joachim?" 

"I  do," 

"And  do  you  swear,  my  sister,  always  to  be 
for  him  what  Sarah  was  for  Abraham  with 
regard  to  Hagar,  what  Rachel  and  Leah  were 
for  Jacob  with  regard  to  Bilhah  and  Zilpah?" 

"I  do,"  she  repeated  with  the  same  confi- 
dence. 

Brother  Murdoch  raised  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  his  shadow  began  to  flicker  on  the 
wall. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said  forcefully,  "Brother 
Jemini,  Sister  Anna,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  and  by  the  authority  of  the  Holy 
Sacrament,  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife 
for  now  and  for  all  eternity;  upon  you  both 
I  bestow  the  blessings  of  the  Holy  Resurrec- 
tion so  that  you  may  appear  on  Judgment  Day 
wrapped  in  glory,  immortality  and  eternal 
life.  And  I  bestow  upon  you  the  blessings  of 
the  Thrones,  of  the  Dominions,  of  the  Princi- 
palities, of  the  Powers  and  of  the  Exaltations; 


228  SALT   LAKE 

likewise  the  blessings  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and 
Jacob  and  I  say  unto  you:  'Multiply  and  be 
fruitful  and  replenish  the  earth,  that  you  may 
rejoice  in  your  seed  on  Judgment  Day.'  All 
these  blessings  as  well  as  all  the  others  in  this 
new  and  immortal  covenant,  I  shower  upon 
your  heads  by  the  authority  of  the  Sacrament, 
in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and  the 
Holy  Ghost,  that  you  may  be  faithful  unto 
death.  Amen." 

He  remained  for  an  instant  with  bowed 
head,  praying,  then  he  said  to  them: 

"Go,  you  are  united." 

They  went  out,  passed  through  the  two 
chambers.  The  carriage  in  which  they  had 
come  was  drawn  up  before  the  outer  door. 
It  was  raining  no  longer.  In  the  sky,  there 
were  even  stars,  peering  between  soft  clouds. 

The  couple  shook  hands  with  Brother  Mur- 
doch and  the  witnesses,  thanking  them. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Gwinett,  "it's  a  shame 
that  being  married  at  such  a  late  hour  will 
prevent  us  from  asking  you  to  dinner!" 

"Bah!"  said  Brother  Murdoch  in  his  thick, 
gruff  voice,  "  there's  no  harm  done.  We'll 
leave  that  for  the  next  time!" 


SALT   LAKE  229 

Already  settled  under  the  carriage  hood, 
Annabel  burst  into  laughter. 

"Did  you  hear  what  that  idiot  said?"  asked 
Gwinett  crossly,  as  the  carriage  started  off. 

"Yes,"  she  said  still  laughing.  "He  seems 
to  be  pretty  clever  in  concealing  how  fond 
he  is  of  joking." 

And,  with  all  her  strength,  she  clung  to  the 
minister.  This  time  he  did  not  push  her 
away. 

They  allowed  themselves  to  be  drawn  along, 
indifferent  to  the  road  the  carriage  was  tak- 
ing. The  song  of  the  ditches  could  be  heard, 
so  loud,  that  at  times  it  submerged  the  rattle 
of  the  wheels. 

At  last — after  how  long? — Gwinett  disen- 
gaged himself  gently  from  her  embrace.  The 
carriage  had  stopped. 

"We  are  home,  dear." 

They  stood  together  on  the  road.  A  house 
rose  up  darkly  in  front  of  them.  The  carriage 
had  gone  away. 

Annabel  shuddered.  She  seized  the  minis- 
ter's arm. 

"Are  we  there?"  she  said,  "are  we?     I  don't 


230  SALT   LAKE 

recognize  the  garden.    Where  are  we?" 

He  had  unlatched  a  gate.  She  followed 
him,  feeling  her  way  in  the  dark. 

He  opened  a  door.  Now  they  were  climb- 
ing an  obscure  staircase. 

"Where  are  we?  Where  are  we?"  she 
repeated. 

She  felt  his  lips  against  her  ear.  He  whis- 
pered: 

"Where  are  you,  my  beloved?  In  a  house 
better  suited  to  shelter  our  love  than  your 
luxurious  villa." 

A  corridor.  Another  door  is  opened  and 
closed.  A  lamp  is  lighted.  A  large,  bare 
room  appears. 

The  pastor  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
He  had  taken  off  his  coat.  He  looked  at 
Annabel,  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her  lovingly. 

She  flung  herself  into  them.  She  huddled 
there.  She  was  trembling. 

"My  beloved,  my  beloved,  where  are  we?" 

Without  answering,  still  smiling,  he  drew 
her  to  him.  He  removed  her  outer  garments 
and  her  shoes,  placed  them  carefully  on  a 
chair,  at  the  head  of  the  great  white  bed  which 


SALT    LAKE  231 

stood  imposing  and  resplendent  in  the  myste- 
rious room. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  attempted  to  ask  once 
more.  "Oh!  but  what  does  it  matter!  With 
you,  my  beloved,  with  you!" 

She  surrendered  herself.  He  pressed  her 
more  closely  to  him.  She  questioned  him  no 
longer  .  .  . 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 

had  not  slept  until  dawn. 
When  Annabel  awoke,  the  sun 
already  high  in  the  heavens,  was 
glancing  on  the  window-pane  where  tiny 
drops  of  blue  fog  pursued  each  other.  She 
was  alone. 

This  did  not  alarm  her.  It  even  made  her 
happy  at  first.  Pulling  up  the  covers,  for  the 
room  was  cold,  she  luxuriated  in  her  warm 
lassitude. 

Soon,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  lie  in  bed 
any  longer.  A  queer  uneasiness  took  posses- 
sion of  her.  She  sought  the  cause,  found  it 
— it  was  the  surrounding  calm,  the  complete 
absence  of  noise.  All  was  strangely  silent 
in  the  house. 

Annabel  arose  in  her  night-dress,  she 
went  to  the  door,  opened  it.  A  corridor, 
very  light,  like  a  room,  led  to  a  stairway.  A 
gust  of  icy  air  made  her  shiver.  She  shut  the 
door  again,  then,  having  thrown  the  heavy 

cloak  in  which  she  had  been  wrapped  the 

232 


SALT   LAKE  233 

day  before,  over  her  shoulders,  she  undertook 
a  minute  examination  of  the  place  in  which 
she  found  herself. 

She  started  to  the  window,  with  its  stiff 
white  curtains,  streaming  with  sunshine.  She 
attempted  to  open  it,  but  in  vain — the  fasten- 
ing, although  new,  was  rusty.  So  Annabel 
rubbed  the  mist  off  one  of  the  panes  and  looked 
out. 

What  she  saw  was  anything  but  unusual. 
The  bedroom  was  on  the  second  floor.  Be- 
low it,  a  vegetable  garden,  enclosed  by  an 
eight-foot  adobe  wall  about  a  hundred  yards 
away.  Beyond,  in  the  crude  sky,  the  Wah- 
satch  mountains,  upon  which  it  had  snowed 
during  the  night,  'lifted  their  jagged,  rosy 
peaks.  The  sun  shone,  reassuringly. 

The  garden  vegetation  was  powdered  with 
a  greyish,  iridescent  frost.  In  the  centre  lay 
a  square  of  naked  brown  earth.  A  woman, 
stooping,  was  digging.  She  pulled  up  pota- 
toes which  she  threw  in  a  basket.  Annabel 
thought  that  she  looked  familiar.  She  tapped 
on  the  win,dow-pane  timidly,  then  harder. 
The  woman  did  not  turn  around.  But  she  was 
far  away.  Perhaps  she  had  not  heard. 


234  SALT   LAKE 

Annabel  decided  that  she  had  been  mistaken. 
She  left  the  window. 

The  walls  of  the  room  were  roughly  plast- 
ered and  bare.  They  were  without  ornament 
except  for  a  portrait,  a  portrait  of  Benjamin 
Franklin.  In  a  crude  frame,  he  displayed  his 
fat,  smirking  face,  his  black  vest,  his  Quaker 
cravat  and  the  rest  of  the  assumed  biblical 
guilelessness  of  the  layman  saint  who  has  made 
Lake  Michigan  a  twin  sister  of  Lake  Geneva. 
Annabel  was  much  too  inexperienced  to  real- 
ize that  the  effigy  of  that  sinister  philanthro- 
pist was  ominous  here.  She  shrunk  back, 
nevertheless. 

A  door  stood  ajar.  The  young  woman 
pushed  it  open  and  entered  a  second  room, 
smaller,  with  no  opening  other  than  a  window 
giving  on  the  same  garden.  This  room  had 
pretentions  to  being  a  dressing-room,  that  is 
to  say,  it  was  furnished  with  a  small  table  on 
which  were  a  basin  and  a  ridiculously  scanty 
pitcher  of  water  and,  beneath  it,  an  iron  pail. 
In  one  of  the  drawers,  some  soap  and  a  comb. 
That  was  all. 

No — in  addition  there  was  a  mirror,  a 
diminutive  mirror,  hung  on  a  nail.  Annabel 


SALT   LAKE          235 

smiled  as  she  thought  of  her  bedroom  at  the 
villa,  with  its  two  vast  cheval-glasses  where 
in  happy  complacency  she  contemplated  her 
beauty  each  day  and  suddenly  she  started  at 
the  thought  that  perhaps  she  would  never 
more  see  the  secret  treasures  of  her  beloved 
body. 

To  escape  this  absurd  apprehension,  she 
thought  of  the  minister. 

"Oh!"  she  muttered,  "I  am  going  mad! 
Why  must  I  stay  up  here  for  ever,  when  he  is 
surely  downstairs  waiting  for  me — he  must 
even  be  wondering  .  .  ." 

She  made  a  hasty  use  of  the  brittle  comb, 
the  hard,  cold  water,  the  tallow-smelling  soap. 
Then  she  dressed,  with  the  distaste  unknown 
to  her  until  then  of  wearing  the  same  dress  so 
soon  again. 

She  put  on  her  shoes.  Since  her  awaken- 
ing, she  had  been  barefoot  on  the  pine  floor- 
ing which,  to  be  sure,  was  very  clean. 

When  ready,  she  glanced  into  the  garden. 
The  potato  woman  was  no  longer  there. 

Going  along  the  hall,  Annabel  came  to  the 
staircase.  The  sound  of  her  heels,  as  she 
went  downstairs,  reverberated  much  louder 


236  SALT   LAKE 

than  on  the  floor  of  the  bedroom.  Instinc- 
tively, she  descended  the  rest  of  the  way  on 
tiptoes. 

In  the  vestibule,  a  wide  vestibule  opening 
into  the  garden,  nothing.  Facing  her,  a  door. 
Annabel  opened  it.  This  door  gave  on  a 
street,  a  deserted  street.  Annabel  closed  it 
again.  Cutting  across  the  vestibule,  she  went 
to  another  door.  She  opened  it,  her  heart 
beating. 

She  found  herself  in  the  first  room  of  the 
house  that  might  have  been  called  furnished. 
It  was  a  vast  kitchen,  with  a  fire-place  where 
blazed  a  fairly  good  fire.  A  large  red  clay 
pot  stood  on  two  bricks  against  the  logs,  in  the 
midst  of  the  flames.  Its  contents  hummed. 
It  was  an  appetizing  song,  almost  reassuring. 
Annabel  sat  down  upon  a  stool.  She  was  cold. 
She  stretched  her  legs,  put  her  hands  and  feet 
out  to  the  hearth. 

The  gurglings  in  the  pot  grew  louder.  The 
cover  lifted  up,  giving  passage  to  puffs  of 
yellow  scum.  They  ran  over  the  side,  fell 
into  the  fire,  sputtered,  threatened  to  extin- 
guish the  flames.  Annabel  decided  to  act. 
With  infinite  precautions,  she  hooked  a  poker 


SALT   LAKE  237 

on  the  ponderous  utensil  and  drew  it  back  a 
little.  She  rejoiced  to  hear  the  tiny  storm 
inside  decreasing.  But  the  soot  on  the  poker 
had  soiled  her  hands  most  disagreeably. 

Furthermore,  the  silence  began  to  oppress 
her. 

It  was  opportunely  broken  by  the  sound  of 
the    outer    door    opening.     Now    some    one  ' 
knocked  at  the  kitchen  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Annabel. 

She  could  not  help  thinking  that  people 
entered  this  house  somewhat  too  easily.  To 
leave  it  could  not  be  much  more  difficult. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett,  please?" 

Annabel  arose  to  meet  the  newcomer.  It 
was  the  postman.  Four  functionaries  of  the 
sort  assured  Salt  Lake  City  a  mail  service, 
the  city  being  divided  into  four  corresponding 
sections:  North-West,  North-East,  South- 
East,  South-West.  Until  then,  Annabel  had 
only  dealt  with  the  postman  of  the  North- 
West  section.  The  one  who  had  just  entered 
bore  the  initials  "S-E"  on  the  copper  star 
of  his  shoulder  belt.  She  did  not  know 
him. 

He  took  two  letters  from  his  pouch. 


238  SALT    LAKE 

"Mrs.  Gwinett?"  he  repeated. 

Not  until  then  had  Annabel  recollected  that 
she  was  Mrs.  Gwinett.  She  smiled.  "Letters 
already!"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

But  the  man  stepped  back. 

"I  am  asking  for  Mrs.  Gwinett,"  he  said 
for  the  third  time. 

"I  am  she." 

The  postman  stared  at  her  distrustfully. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett,  wife  of  Brother  Jemini 
Gwinett?" 

"I  tell  you  I  am  Mrs.  Gwinett,"  she  cried 
impatiently. 

He  looked  at  her  again,;  put  the  letters 
back  in  his  sack. 

"I'll  come  by  again,"  he  said. 

And  he  left  her. 

"What  a  suspicious  person!"  she  thought. 

She  laughed,  but  not  long.  Her  laughter 
had  awakened  disquieting  echoes  in  the 
silent  kitchen. 

Some  time  elapsed.  Once  again,  the  outer 
door  opened. 

"Oh!"  cried  out  Annabel  in  happy  sur- 
prise. 


SALT   LAKE  239 

Sarah  Pratt  had  just  entered  the  room. 

She  was,  as  usual,  dressed  in  black.  She 
carried  a  small  copper  can  filled  with  milk. 
She  deposited  it  on  the  table,  shook  the  hand 
held  out  by  Annabel. 

''Sarah!  Sarah!  What  a  god-send!  How 
glad  I  am!"  the  young  woman  said  over  and 
over  again. 

"I  am  glad  you  are,"  said  Sarah  Pratt  with 
a  calm  smile. 

"You  here,  Sarah!  Dear  Sarah!  How 
does  it  happen?" 

Sarah  did  not  answer  right  away.  She  was 
busy  pouring  the  milk  into  a  pan. 

"You  must  be  hungry  for  breakfast,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"Yes,  it's  true,  Sarah,  I'm  hungry.  But 
above  all,  I'm  glad,  so  glad  to  see  you 
again." 

Sarah  went  to  the  fire-place,  set  the  pan  on 
the  coals. 

"The  big  pot  is  not  where  I  left  it,"  she 
remarked. 

"I  took  it  off  the  fire,  Sarah." 

"You  did  wrong.  The  vegetables  will  not 
be  cooked." 


240  SALT   LAKE 

"I  thought  I  was  doing  what  should  be 
done.  It  seemed  to  me  the  water  was  boil- 
ing over.  I  didn't  know." 

"See  to  it  that  you  do  the  next  time,"  said 
Sarah  simply. 

She  bent  over  the  fire-place.  The  flames 
lighted  her  beautiful,  impassible,  waxy  fore- 
head. 

A  yellow  film  was  forming  on  the  surface 
of  the  milk.  It  lifted,  rent  in  two,  allowing 
the  white  foam  to  dissolve. 

"Help  yourself  to  a  bowl,  there,  on  the 
side-board,"  ordered  Sarah  Pratt. 

She  filled  the  bowl  which  Annabel  brought, 
then  cut  a  large  slice  of  bread,  buttered  it, 
held  it  out  to  her. 

"Eat." 

"And  you,  Sarah?" 

"I  have  had  breakfast,"  she  responded. 

Annabel,  hesitated  before  asking  a  question. 
At  length  she  gathered  courage. 

"Won't  you  have  to  fix  another  bowl?" 

"Another  bowl?  And  for  whom,  if  you 
please?" 

"Why  ...  for  the  minister  1" 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  said  Sarah  Pratt  dryly. 


SALT   LAKE  241 

"He  had  breakfast  with  me.  We  get  up  early, 
here,  you  know,"  she  added. 

Annabel  sat  dumfounded  before  the  smok- 
ing bowl. 

"Why  don't  you  eat,  since  you  are  hungry?" 
said  Sarah,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

And  tying  a  blue  apron  over  her  skirt,  she 
began  to  peel  potatoes. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Sarah. 

It  was  the  postman  again. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett?"  he  asked  from  the  door- 
sill. 

The  two  women  had  arisen  simultaneously. 

The  postman  held  the  same  two  letters  in 
his  hand. 

"Give  them  to  me,"  said  Sarah. 

She  took  them.  He  bowed,  not  without 
casting  a  severe  look  at  Annabel. 

"Excuse  me,  won't  you?"  said  Sarah. 

She  had  broken  the  seals  and  was  reading. 
Annabel  had  turned  very  pale. 

"Those  letters  .  .  ."  she  mumbled. 

"Well?"  said  Sarah,  without  looking  up,  "I 
am  reading  them." 

"You  are  reading  them?" 


242  SALT   LAKE 

"I  am,  because  they  are  addressed  to  me." 

"Addressed  to  you !  But,  Sarah,  the  address 
reads  'Mrs.  Gwinett'I" 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  Sarah,  "but  the 
address  is  incomplete.  It  ought  to  read: 
'Mrs.  Gvvinett  Number  One.'  But  you  see, 
I  haven't  had  time  yet  to  advise  my  cor- 
respondents of  my  husband's  latest  marriage." 

"Your  husband  .  .  ." 

"Our  husband,  if  you  prefer,  dear  Anna." 

"Our  husband  I"  echoed  Annabel. 

She  stood  up.  She  walked  to  Sarah  who 
watched  her  calmly  without  dropping  the 
potatoes  which  she  was  busy  peeling. 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  Annabel  with 
violence. 

"Who,  he?" 

"Why,  the  minister!" 

"If  you  are  speaking  of  Jemini,"  said  Sarah 
carelessly,  "stop  calling  him  by  a  title  which 
it  is  hardly  suitable  to  give  him  any  longer. 
Besides,  I  hope,  it  will  soon  be  replaced  by  a 
more  exalted  one,  worthier  of  his  gifts,  which 
are  really  exceptional." 

"I  ask  you  where  he  is!" 

"You  ask  me  questions  and  you  don't  even 
give  me  time  to  answer  them!  Just  now,  he 


SALT   LAKE  243 

is  at  the  Tabernacle,  with  Kimball,  Wells,  and 
the  Twelve  Apostles.  President  Brigham, 
attracted  by  the  gifts  I  just  mentioned  as  well 
as  by  his  spectacular  conversion,  wants  his 
theological  initiation  to  be  rushed,  so  that 
he  may  obtain  the  highest  offices  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  If  Brigham  Young  con- 
tinues to  look  upon  the  idea  with  favour,  our 
Jemini  will  see  himself  initiated  into  the 
Order  of  Melchisedech  at  thirty-four !  Think 
of  it,  sister:  only  Hiram  Smith,  the  own 
brother  of  the  prophet,  Brigham,  Kimbal  and 
my  uncle,  the  great  Orson  Pratt,  have  been 
thus  honoured  so  young.  You  must  admit, 
dear  Anna  .  .  ." 

"I  forbid  you  to  call  me  Anna,"  said  Anna- 
bel fiercely. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Sarah  coldly.  "Then 
I  will  call  you  Mrs.  Gwinett  Number  Two. 
But  let  me  draw  your  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  tone  of  your  remarks  does  not  go  very 
well  with  the  declarations  of  friendship  that 
you  professed  a  few  moments  ago,  before  you 
had  asked  me  these  questions." 

Annabel  burst  into  a  nervous  laughter. 

'Those  questions!    Those  questions!    You 


244  SALT   LAKE 

silly  creature,  how  could  you  imagine  that  I 
didn't  know  everything  you  just  told  me,  do 
you  hear,  everything?" 

And  she  went  out  slowly,  casting  a  defiant 
glance  at  Sarah. 

The  light  was  now  growing  feeble  in  the 
bedroom  where  she  had  taken  refuge  instinc- 
tively, after  her  flight  from  the  kitchen.  At 
first  Annabel  had  thrown  herself  sobbing  up- 
on the  bed.  But  its  disorder,  the  memories  of 
the  night  before,  had  horrified  her  immedi- 
ately. 

In  her  absence,  a  small  trunk  had  been 
brought  to  the  room.  It  was  standing  soli- 
tary in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  A  trunk 
from  the  villa.  It  still  bore  a  label,  a  label  in 
Pere  d'Exiles'  handwriting: 

Mrs.  Lee,  St.  Louis,  by  way  of  Omaha. 

Annabel  seated  herself  on  the  trunk,  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in  her  palms. 
She  stayed  there  all  day,  inert,  tearless.  And 
little  by  little,  the  ash-grey  evening  filtered 
through  the  misty  panes. 

The  world  reels  about  us  and  we  are  alone 


SALT   LAKE  245 

in  an  unfriendly  room.  What  have  we  to 
hope  for  from  the  world  and  from  life?  We 
are  disillusioned,  our  eyes  are  opened.  We 
no  longer  desire  anything,  except  death,  per- 
haps .  .  .  But  this  is  the  one  thing  we  still 
fear.  O  Sun!  To  see  thy  Divine  Face  for  a 
last  time!  Had  Annabel  been  of  those  amaz- 
ingly courageous  beings  who  can  commit 
suicide  no  doubt  she  would  have  killed  her- 
self. 

Night  now,  black  night.  Then  on  the 
boards,  a  thin  pencil  of  pale  moonlight. 
Better  than  by  daylight,  we  see  a  thousand 
unlocked  for  details  in  the  flooring;  the  atoms 
of  dust,  the  cracks  that  we  count,  a  moth, 
winged  dot,  which  crawls  away  and  dis- 
appears in  the  darkness,  with  whom  we  would 
disappear,  if  we  dared  .  .  . 

Annabel's  tiny  watch  had  not  yet  stopped. 
Still  it  only  goes  twenty-four  hours  and  its 
owner  had  wound  it  up  yesterday  at  six,  be- 
fore the  ceremony  over  which  the  ominoua 
Brother  Murdock  had  presided.  But  it  i* 
nine  o'clock.  Oh,  let  us  wind  it  quickly,  to 
prolong  its  vacillating  support! 

Nine  o'clock!    Ten  o'clock!     He  will  noi 


246  SALT   LAKE 

come  now.  To  what  purpose  all  the  speeches 
that  Annabel,  on  her  trunk,  had  prepared  to 
denounce  this  recreant?  Half-past  ten!  She 
burst  into  laughter.  She  had  understood. 
She  remembered.  Gwinett  is  a  good  Mor- 
man  husband.  Today  is  Sarah's  day. 

The  Latter-Day  Saints  belong  by  turn  to 
each  of  their  wives — except  on  Sunday,  the 
Lord's  Day,  when  like  Him,  they  partake  of 
a  well-earned  repose.  And  so  it  is  Monday 
night  that  is  the  most  interesting,  the  most  re- 
munerative the  night  which  goes  to  wife  num- 
ber one  by  right,  in  this  case  to  Sarah  Pratt — 
Sarah  Gwinett.  Annabel  Lee,  no,  Anna 
Gwinett,  counted  on  her  fingers.  Monday, 
Sarah — Tuesday,  herself;  Wednesday,  Sarah 
— Thursday,  yesterday,  their  wedding  day, 
Anna  herself;  today  is  Friday,  Sarah;  to- 
morrow, Saturday,  she,  Anna  will  be  honoured 
by  their  equitable  mate.  Unless,  by  that  time, 
she  will  have  had  the  courage  to  ... 

Eleven  o'clock.  Annabel's  great  cape  is 
still  there  on  the  chair,  where  Gwinett  had 
thrown  it  last  night.  The  young  woman 
wrapped  it  about  her.  The  moon  had 
wheeled  around  the  house.  Now  it  ilium- 


SALTLAKE  247 

inated  the  empty  corridor.     Good  heavens! 
how  these  stairs  squeak! 

Annabel  had  reached  the  street  door.  In 
the  obscurity,  she  fumbles  with  the  heavy 
chains.  An  extraordinary  nervous  dexterity 
has  taken  possession  of  her.  The  stairs  had 
squeaked.  The  door  opens  noiselessly — it 
seems  uncanny.  Now  Annabel  is  alone  out- 
side, alotie  in  Salt  Lake  City. 

A  cold,  cutting  wind.  Blocks  of  inky 
houses.  Shadows  passing  with  pallid  lanterns 
under  their  cloaks.  Here  is  a  place  Anna- 
bel recognizes — the  Union  Hotel.  Should 
she  enter  and  ask  Judge  Sydney  for  the  glass 
of  port  he  offered  her  the  day  the  American 
troops  arrived,  not  three  months  ago?  How 
much  has  happened  since  then!  No.  Anna- 
bel is  not  going  to  the  Union  Hotel  tonight. 

But  look — a  flag  waves  in  the  sad  night 
breeze  over  the  door  of  a  massive  building. 
By  the  light  of  a  triagular  lantern,  the  starry 
blue  field  sways  back  and  forth.  Ah!  Gov- 
ernor Cumming's  residence.  Often  had 
Annabel's  carriage  stopped  before  that  door — 
not  so  often,  however,  as  the  Governor's  in 


248  SALTLAKE 

front  of  the  festive,  hospitable  villa  of  Annabel 
Lee. 

Will  she  enter  this  time?     Yes. 

A  sallow  individual — a  doorkeeper  perhaps 
— dozed  in  the  narrow  entry.  What  does  she 
want  of  him? 

"I  want  to  see  Governor  Gumming." 

"Now?  Folks  ought  to  be  abed  at  this 
time  o'  night." 

"Go  ask  him  anyway.  And  give  him  my 
name.  We  shall  see." 

Suspicious  but  prudent,  the  man  was  gone. 
Annabel  is  left  alone.  Suddenly,  she  notices 
her  slippers,  her  dainty  bronze  slippers, 
stained  with  mud,  and  her  dress  likewise. 
Governor  Gumming,  who  flirted  with  her  so 
discreetly!  Oh!  rather  a  thousand  times  .  .  . 
And  the  dark  street  takes  her  back. 

O  Night,  sinister  Night!  A  mm  had  just 
accosted  Annabel.  He  muttered  horrible 
things  to  her  between  his  teeth.  No  use  get- 
ting angry — what  can  you  expect?  And  then, 
this  virtuous  town  offers  so  few  distractions 
to  a  Morman  bachelor  ...  A  house  stream- 
ing with  golden  light.  Annabel  presses  her 
gloomy  face  against  a  window.  Within,  the 


SALT   LAKE  249 

people  are  merry.  They  sit  around  a  table 
loaded  with  victuals.  They  are  singing 
hymns. 

She  sees  the  patriarch  with  his  wives,  his 
little  children,  so  fair  and  rosy.  Oh!  after 
all,  there  is  happiness  in  the  Land  of  the  Mor- 
mon !  Annabel  had  eaten  nothing  since  morn- 
ing. If  she  went  in,  perhaps  they  would  give 
her  the  drumstick  of  that  goose. 

But  why  beg,  when  there  are  two,  three, 
four  gold  pieces  here  in  her  pocket?  Annabel 
counted  them  by  the  glimmer  from  the  yellow 
panes.  Surely  you  can  find  something  to  eat 
in  Salt  Lake  City,  above  all  on  such  a  night, 
obviously  a  holiday  night. 

Once  again,  the  obscure  labyrinth  of  streets, 
and  once  again,  a  light.  This  time  it  is  a 
store,  yes,  it  is  a  store.  The  windows  have 
checkered  curtains,  red  and  white. 

But  just  what  do  they  have  for  sale  here? 
Oh!  what  does  it  matter,  if  only  it  is  something 
to  eat?  Annabel  enters.  A  shriveled  old 
woman  is  knitting.  Upon  seeing  Annabel, 
she  puts  down  her  work. 

Annabel,  intimidated,  is  silent. 

"Hmm!  hmm!"  coughs  the  old  woman. 


250          SALT   LAKE 

Bizarre  sounds  issue  from  a  small  door 
opening  into  the  darkness  at  the  back  of  the 
shop.  A  concertina.  Drunken  music. 

"How  jolly  they  are!"  murmurs  Annabel. 

"They  have  a  right  to  be,"  answers  the  old 
woman  dryly.  "Today  is  the  anniversary  of 
the  Discovery  of  Urin  and  Thummin  by 
Joseph  Smith.  We  are  supposed  to  celebrate, 
according  to  the  commandments  of  the 
Church." 

"Pm  hungry,"  says  Annabel. 

"And  thirsty  too,  I'll  bet.  Well,  go  on  in. 
You  can  eat  and  drink,  and  not  alone,  my 
pretty  one.  Good  looking  girls  like  you 
should  have  company.  It  will  cost  you  a 
couple  of  dollars,  which  you  will  not  be  long 
in  recuperating.  But  understand,  we  want 
no  scandal  here.  .  .  ." 

Annabel  walked  into  the  back-room  with 
firm  steps.  As  she  entered,  she  thought  of 
the  church  yesterday,  the  church  where  she 
became  Mrs.  Gwinett.  Ah!  how  like  its 
churches  are  the  brothels  in  this  blessed 
country  of  the  Lord — and  hardly  more  de- 
pressing at  that.  But  here,  at  least,  you  can 
eat  and  drink. 


SALT   LAKE  251 

Particularly  drink  ...  Ah!  fierce  fire- 
water! What  would  the  wretched  peasants 
of  County  Kildare  say  of  their  little  mistress, 
she  who  used  to  preach  temperance,  if  they 
could  see  her  tonight?  But  they  are  far,  far 
away,  beyond  the  billowing  seas,  and  they 
shall  never  see  her  again. 

If  the  word  drunk  is  adequate,  Annabel 
was  drunk  when  she  left  this  curious  place. 
A  young  Mormon,  handsome  and  conceited, 
followed  her.  As  they  walked  along  the  dark 
streets,  he  held  her  waist  and  attempted  to 
kiss  her,  succeeding  at  times. 

"Do  you  know  whom  you're  kissing?"  she 
asked  him  laughingly. 

"What  do  I  care?"  he  answered.  "I  like 
you,  what  do  I  care?" 

"Oh!  really?  Well,  I  am  Mrs.  Gwinett, 
the  legimate  wife  of  Brother  Jemini  Gwinett, 
whom  you  have  no  doubt  heard  of  .  .  ." 

But  the  presumptuous  young  Morman  fled 
— an  obscure  silhouette — without  asking  the 
rest. 

The  cold  night  air  routs  intoxication  and 
awakens  hunger.  Besides,  Annabel  had 


252  SALT   LAKE 

eaten  so  little.  She  had  been  drinking,  1 
repeat.  But  when  she  reached  her  new  home, 
she  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  house, 
whose  door  she  had  left  ajar.  She  went  in, 
put  the  chains  back  in  place  and  shot  the  bolts. 

In  the  kitchen,  the  dying  flames  of  the  fire- 
place licked  the  iron  andirons  and  flickered 
on  the  black  and  white  tiles. 

Could  there  be  anything  left  to  eat  in  this 
kitchen? 

Seizing  a  stool,  Annabel  dragged  it  to  the 
murky  wall,  climbed  upon  it  and  reached 
a  shelf  along  which  she  felt  with  her 
hand. 

Ah!  a  kettle,  the  kettle  with  the  rem- 
nants of  the  baked  beans,  recipe  by  Rigdon 
Pratt. 

Annabel  took  possession  of  the  kettle  and 
settled  by  the  fire.  She  ate  greedily,  without 
a  fork,  without  a  spoon,  digging  in  the  black 
congealed  mixture  with  her  fingers. 

After  she  emptied  the  kettle,  she  left  it 
there.  Her  handkerchief  had  been  lost, 
where,  she  knew  not.  She  wiped  her  lips 
and  her  hands  with  a  towel,  snatched  out  of 
the  shadows. 


SALT   LAKE  253 

The  staircase  was  steeped  in  darkness  when 
she  staggered  up  to  her  room.  She  sat  down 
on  her  trunk  and  waited,  like  one  of  those  poor 
emigrants  who  huddle  by  the  foggy  water- 
side until  the  hour  strikes  and  a  vessel  comes 
to  take  them  away. 

To  escape — but  how?  In  this  harbour  no 
ship  will  come  to  carry  off  Annabel  Lee. 

Throughout  the  next  day,  Saturday,  she 
stayed  thus  in  her  room,  dull  and  inert,  waiting 
for  her  master,  with  only  one  fear  in  her  heart 
— that  he  might  not  come. 

He  had  too  much  respect  for  the  Mormon 
law.  Nine  o'clock  had  not  yet  struck  when 
he  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  murmured. 

He  embraces  her,  whispers  tender  re- 
proaches. His  suave  recriminations  find  her 
defenceless.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  listens 

gladly. 

>•••••• 

Early  in  November,  Annabel  felt  a  desire  to 
see  her  villa  once  more. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
logs  were  glowing  redder  in  the  kitchen  fire- 


254  SALTLAKE 

place  by  which,  alone,  she  was  shelling  peas. 
She  arose  abruptly,  threw  a  shawl  over  her 
head,  went  out. 

Gwinett's  house  was  located  in  the  south- 
western part  of  Salt  Lake  City,  not  far  from 
the  holy  enclosure  which  formed  a  sort  of 
chemin  de  ronde  around  the  city  and  was 
planted  with  willows  which  whitened  towards 
evening.  It  was  dusk  when  Annabel  passed 
through  it. 

At  first,  she  met  no  one.  She  walked  very 
fast  as  she  skirted  the  accursed  city. 

She  met  no  one,  except  a  group  of  children 
playing  truant.  The  little  Mormons,  escaped 
from  the  Biblical  ferule,  received  her  with 
pleasantries  much  too  sophisticated  for  their 
age.  At  first  she  misconstrued  their  sarcasm. 
"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  me?  A 
hole  in  my  shawl,  I  suppose."  Then  sud- 
denly she  realized — she  had  been  talking 
aloud.  At  this,  the  unhappy  woman  shiv- 
ered, although  she  did  not  yet  know  why.  She 
hastened  her  steps,  broke  into  a  run.  A  stone 
fell  on  the  road  by  her  side.  Then  the  chil- 
dren abandoned  her. 

The  sky  had  whitened   through   the  fine 


SALT   LAKE  255 

meshes  of  the  feathery  willow  branches.  A 
grey  and  black  bird  flew  up  from  the  fields 
and  perched  upon  a  tree  ahead  of  her.  Anna- 
bel slackened  her  pace.  When  she  ap- 
proached the  bird,  he  shook  his  tail  up  and 
down  twice,  and  did  not  fly  away. 

She  came  upon  the  observatory  at  the  cross- 
roads where,  with  Pere  d'Exiles,  she  had 
watched  the  entry  of  the  American  troops 
into  Salt  Lake  City.  It  was  scarcely  four 
months  ago! 

On  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  is  a  great 
city,  St.  Louis,  such  a  hospitable  city — with 
its  Ursuline  convent — for  a  Catholic  girl  who 
has  not  abjured  her  faith.  Annabel  did  not 
linger  at  the  observatory. 

The  villa  at  last,  the  garden  gate,  the 
beautiful  alley  of  sycamores.  Suddenly  filled 
with  uneasiness,  Annabel  dared  not  ring. 

She  had  expected  to  find  the  house  closed, 
wrapped  in  poignant  silence,  empty,  for  she 
had  never  had  the  courage  to  ask  her  dreaded 
master  what  he  had  done  with  it. 

Instead,  there  were  open  windows — a 
woman's  white  silhouette  on  the  veranda. 

Going    around    the    stables,    Annabel    cut 


256  SALT   LAKE 

across  the  fields.  To  the  south,  the  property 
was  bordered  by  a  hedged  embankment,  and 
down  in  the  hollow,  ran  a  path.  Annabel 
followed  the  path  and  then,  clutching  at  the 
shrubbery,  she  lifted  herself  to  the  top  of  the 
hedge.  From  there,  she  could  see  all  over  the 
garden. 

The  change  in  it  touched  her  so  deeply  that 
she  almost  screamed.  In  place  of  the  ragged 
clumps  of  camelias  and  oleanders,  a  checker- 
board of  furrows,  where  a  stooping  man  was 
spading  the  clods  of  brown  earth. 

Two  children  in  gay-coloured  sweaters  were 
watching  him  work.  Their  rosy  little  Anglo- 
Saxon  faces  were  framed  in  pale  copper  hair. 

A  call  rang  out  from  the  house.  The 
woman's  silhoutette  that  Annabel  had  noticed 
on  the  veranda,  appeared. 

"Fred!  Mary!     Come  to  tea." 

The  children  scampered  away.  Then,  in 
her  turn,  Annabel  called  in  a  choked  voice: 

"Coriolan!" 

The  man  did  not  turn  around.  He  had  not 
heard. 

"Coriolan!"  she  repeated  louder. 

He  jumped,  straightened  himself,  looked  to- 


SALT   LAKE  257 

ward   her   perplexedly,   without  seeing  her. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "here  I  am." 

And  she  shook  the  branches  of  the  hedge. 

"Oh,  Missus!"  cried  Coriolan. 

He  hastened  to  her.  He  saw  her,  lacerat- 
ing her  hands  as  she  clung  to  the  thorny 
branches.  Nevertheless  he  made  no  move  to 
help  her  raise  herself  into  the  garden. 

He  could  only  repeat:     "Oh,  Missus!" 

He  said  once  more: 

"Missus!" 

He  added : 

"Dressed  like  that!" 

Annabel  wore  a  shabby  black  serge  dress, 
threadbare,  mended  at  the  elbows — an  old 
dress  which  Sarah  Pratt  had  almost  worn  out. 

She  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  say:  "Don't 
pay  any  attention  to  that!" 

"And  you?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 

Then  she  noticed  that  he,  too,  was  in  rags, 
that  he  had  begun  to  stoop,  that  his  skin  had 
that  greyish  tint  of  the  negro  who  has  suffered. 
She  regretted  her  question,  wished  she  had 
not  spoken. 

"And  Rose?" 

"Rose?"  said  Coriolan. 


258  SALT   LAKE 

He  nodded  vaguely. 

"Of  course  she  is  still  here?"  questioned 
Annabel  in  low  tones. 

Coriolan  did  not  answer.  The  dying  day 
reflected  dark  blue  gleams  on  the  steel  of  the 
spade. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last.     "She  is  not  here  any 


more." 


"Where  is  she,  then?" 

"In  Wisconsin." 

"Did  she  leave  you?" 

"It's  not  her  fault,  Missus.  Mr.  Wana- 
maker,  the  agent  of  the  Federal  Topograph- 
ical Bureau  was  transferred  to  Milwaukee. 
He  took  Rose  away." 

"He  took  her  to  Milwaukee?" 

"He  bought  her,"  said  Coriolan  very  gently. 

"Ah!"  cried  Annabel. 

She  asked,  in  a  still  lower  voice: 

"And  .  .  .  you?" 

"Me?  I  just  stayed  here.  Mr.  Tuttle, 
the  cashier  of  the  Kinkead  Bank  boughtened 
me  with  the  villa." 

"With  the  villa!"  repeated  Annabel. 

"Yes,"  said  the  negro.  "Mr.  Gwinett 
insisted  that  they  take  her  at  the  same  time, 


SALTLAKE  259 

there's  no  one  who'll  tell  Missus  different 
But  Mrs.  Tuttle  is  a  good  cook,  and  her  hus- 
band wants  her  to  cook  herself.  So  they  had 
no  use  for  Rose.  That's  why  Mr.  Gwinett 
sold  her  to  Mr.  Wanamaker." 

"To  Mr.  Wanamaker!"  echoed  Annabel. 

They  were  silent  for  an  instant.  Blue 
smoke  ascended  from  the  house.  Coriolan's 
silence  implied  no  reproach  whatever. 

"I  have  to  go,"  he  said  at  last.  "It's  time 
to  feed  the  horses.  Master  don't  like  me  to 
be  late." 

"Is  Mr.  Tuttle  good  to  you?"  asked  Anna- 
bel. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Coriolan. 

He  added,  lower,  looking  towards  the 
house : 

"When  I'm  not  slow." 

"And  if  you  are  slow?"  insisted  the  un- 
happy woman. 

The  negro  was  silent. 

At  that  moment,  a  dry,  sonorous  voice  called 
out  from  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  in  the 
grey  dusk. 

"Bull!  Bull!" 

Coriolan  shuddered. 


260  SALT   LAKE 

"Bull!  Bull!  Will  some  one  tell  me  what 
has  become  of  that  unmitigated  ass  of  a  Bull?" 

"Here  I  am,  master,  here!"  cried  the  negro 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Bull?"  interrogated  Annabel. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  negro  hastily. 
"They've  changed  my  name." 

"Oh!"  she  thought.     "He,  tool" 

"Bull,  Bull!     Are  you  coming,  you  rascal?" 

"Here,  sir,  here!" 

He  added  very  low,  very  rapidly: 

"Can  Missus  wait?  I  can  be  froo  in  half 
an  hour." 

"Go,"  she  said.     "I  will  wait." 

He  ran  away.  As  soon  as  she  had  watched 
his  silhouette  disappear  in  the  shadow  of  the 
house,  she  released  the  branches  of  the  shrub- 
bery and  she,  too,  begun  to  run  at  the  bottom 
of  the  draw. 

Night  had  fallen  when  she  arrived  at  her 
husband's  house.  Gwinett  was  sitting  by  a 
table  in  the  kitchen,  reading.  Sarah  was 
setting  the  table. 

"So,  here  you  are!"  she  said,  when  Anna- 
bel came  in. 

The  young  woman  did  not  answer.     She 


SALT   LAKE  261 

took   a   chair   and   went   to  sit  by  the   fire. 

"And  the  peas?"  continued  Sarah.  "You 
never  shelled  them  did  you?" 

Annabel  kept  silent. 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  tell 
me  why?"  said  Sarah's  sharp  voice. 

A  tiny  log  Earned  on  the  hearth,  glowed 
white  and  red — Annabel!  did  not  take  her 
eyes  from  it. 

Gwinett  had  laid  his  book  on  the  table.  In 
his  rich,  deep  voice  he  questioned: 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear  Sarah?  What 
is  it?" 

"This,"  she  answered,  pointing  to  Annabel, 
"that  once  again,  Madam  has  not  done  what 
she  was  supposed  to  do.  She  thinks  it's  fine 
to  sit  down  at  the  table,  before  a  nice,  warm 
meal.  But  as  for  fixing  it,  that's  another 
thing." 

"Calm  yourself,  dear  Sarah,  calm  yourself," 
said  Gwinett.  "I  am  sure  that  Anna  is  the 
first  to  regret.  Isn't  it  so,  dear  Anna?" 

Annabel  had  picked  up  a  poker  and  was 
amusing  herself  by  playing  with  the  tiny  gar- 
net coals. 

"She   can   shell   those   peas,"   said   Sarah. 


262  SALT   LAKE 

"As  for  myself,  I  won't  lay  my  hand  to 
them.  And  whether  she  does  or  not,  we  won't 
eat  before  eight  o'clock  tonight." 

"We  will  have  supper  when  it  is  ready," 
said  Gwinett  with  calm  resignation.  "Let 
us  not  talk  about  this  delay  any  more.  Anna 
must  be  sufficiently  punished  by  the  thought 
that  she  is  the  cause  of  it,  and  it  would 
scarcely  be  charitable,  dear  Sarah,  to  harp 
on  it  any  longer.  Hand  her  the  bowl  of  peas, 
that  she  may  finish  her  task." 

Sarah  obeyed.     Annabel  did  not  stir. 

"Why,  what  are  you  doing?"  cried  Gwinett 
suddenly. 

"She's  going  mad!"  yelped  Sarah. 

Annabel,  with  perfect  composure,  had  emp- 
tied the  whole  bowl  of  peas  into  the  fire-place. 

Sarah  sprung  at  her,  but  she  jumped  aside 
just  in  time.  The  bowl  grazed  her  temple 
and  smashed  against  the  wall. 

"Anna!"  cried  Gwinett,  hideously  pale. 

He  seized  her  left  wrist,  which  he  let  go 
immediately,  for  he  had  received  the  finest 
slap  that  ever  gratified  a  minister  of  the  Al- 
mighty here  below. 


SALT   LAKE  263 

"Crazy,  crazy!  I  told  you  so,  she's  crazy!" 
screamed  Sarah. 

Annabel  stood  motionless,  holding  her  hands 
to  her  temples,  watching  them.  Then  she 
burst  into  an  endless  nervous  laugh. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A6~^t     T"OU  here,  Bessie!     You!" 

^r          Annabel     sat    up.     With     her 
M       wasted  hand  she  caressed  her  com- 
panion's forehead. 

Nothing  had  changed  in  the  light,  bare 
room,  except  that  the  little  table  by  the  bed 
was  crowded  with  phials  of  yellowish  medic- 
aments. 

Annabel  repeated  in  a  plaintive  voice: 

"Bessie,  how  does  it  happen  you  are  here 
— you,  of  all  people?" 

Kneeling,  the  young  woman  kissed  the 
convalescent's  bony  hand. 

"Yes,  I  did  see  you  several  times,  Bessie. 
It  comes  back  to  me  now.  I  didn't  know  it 
was  you.  I  have  been  very  ill,  haven't  I?" 

"Very,  very  ill,"  said  Bessie. 

"But  I'm  much  better,  I'm  sure.     Give  me 


a  mirror." 


Bessie  took  down  the  cheap   little   round 

mirror    and    brought    it    to    Annabel,    who 

264 


SALT   LAKE  265 

smiled  as  she  contemplated  her  thin,  pale 
face. 

"Bessie,  they  cut  off  my  hair!  Did  they 
cut  it  off,  or  did  it  fall  out?" 

"It  fell  out." 

"It  fell  out!  What  have  I  had?  Typhoid 
fever,  perhaps." 

"Brain  fever." 

"Ah!  Brain  fever.  I  suppose  they  asked 
you  to  come  and  take  care  of  me,  and  you  came 
right  away,  like  the  first  time,  you  remember, 
dear  Bessie?" 

Bessie  had  prepared  some  herb-tea. 

"Drink  this,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Like  the  first  time,  at  my  house,  don't  you 
remember?  Rose  couldn't  imagine  what  was 
ailing  me,  and  neither  could  Coriolan.  And 
Pere  d'Exiles  was  away.  It  was  last  March, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  last  March,"  said  Bessie. 

"And  it's  November  now,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  the  fourth  of  December." 

"The  fourth  of  December!  Oh,  will  you 
close  the  window?  No  wonder  it's  so  cold  in 
the  room." 

Bessie  obeyed.     The  sky  was  gray  and  win- 


266  SALTLAKE 

try  and  the  frozen  furrows  had  turned  black. 

"The  fourth  of  December,  good  heavens!" 
continued  Annabel.  "And  it  seems  to  me  I 
took  sick  in  November." 

"November  seventh." 

"November  seventh !  Why,  it  was  a  month 
ago!  Tell  me,  have  you  been  well  treated 
here,  Bessie  dear?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  young  woman  in  a  low 
voice. 

"As  well  as  at  my  house?" 

"Just  as  well." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad.  I  meant  at  the  villa,  any- 
way, since  this  is  my  house  now,  you  see.  It's 
a  long  story,  Bessie.  But  I  suppose  you  know 
it  by  this  time?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Bessie,  nodding  her  head. 
"But  don't  get  excited.  You  still  have  a  fever. 
Don't  talk  any  more.  Try  to  sleep." 

"All  right,  I  will,  Bessie.  Won't  you  kiss 
me?  Why  not,  I  give  you  permission  to.  Yes, 
I  am  sleepy,  after  all,  Bessie.  But  I  am 
better,  am  I  not?  Kiss  me." 

Bessie  kissed  her  pitiful,  bloodless  forehead, 
shook  up  the  lone  pillow.  Annabel  had  closed 
her  eyes.  Her  lips  twisted  as  she  muttered 


SALT   LAKE  267 

disconnected  words.     Then  sleep  closed  them. 
Bessie  humbly  resumed  her  watch  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  began  to  patch  towels. 

Straining  her  eyes  in  the  dusk,  Bessie  was 
still  at  work  when  Gwinett  entered  the  room. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked. 

Bessie  had  arisen. 

"She  is  rational  now.  She  recognized  me 
for  the  first  time." 

"Ah!"  said  Gwinett  smiling. 

He  took  Annabel's  wrist. 

"Her  pulse  is  quiet.  The  fever  has  gone 
down.  Tomorrow  she  can  begin  to  take 
some  nourishment.  However,  might  I  ask 
you,  dear  Bessie,  to  stay  with  her  another 
night?" 

"I  shall  not  leave  her  until  she  is  completely 
out  of  danger." 

"I  know,  tonight  is  Sarah's  turn.  But 
since  our  Anna  is  regaining  her  right  mind, 
I  prefer  that  you  be  with  her,  if  she  should 
awake.  Bessie,  you  are  a  saint,  a  worthy 
spouse,  a  spouse  righteous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Lord!" 

He  repeated: 


268  SALT   LAKE 

"Righteous  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord!" 

And  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her 
twice  and  then  went  out. 

The  echo  of  Gwinett's  steps  died  away  in 
the  corridor.  Annabel's  voice  rang  out  im- 
periously. 

"Light  the  lamp." 

Bessie  started  and  obeyed. 

"Come  here,"  commanded  Annabel. 

Again  Bessie  obeyed.     She  was  trembling. 

"Why  are  you  blushing,  Bessie?  You 
haven't  a  fever,  I  have." 

"Oh,  please,"  mumbled  the  wretched  girl, 
"don't  be  too  hard  on  your  old  servant!" 

"Servant!"  cried  Annabel.  "Would  you 
call  yourself  that  if  he  were  still  in  the  room? 
You  know  very  well  that  you  wouldn't  .  .  . 
he  wouldn't  hear  of  it!" 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett  Number  Three,"  asked  the 
sick  woman  very  gently,  "will  you  be  so  kind 
as  to  give  me  a  drink  of  that  tea?" 

She  drank.  Averting  her  eyes,  Bessie  took 
the  cup. 

"Bessie,"  said  Annabel  at  last,  "how  could 


SALT   LAKE  269 

you?  Have  you  quite  forgotten  what  I  did 
for  you?" 

Bessie  was  silent. 

"Must  I  remind  you,  Bessie?  You  know 
full  well  that  no  one  in  this  awful  place  wanted 
to  give  you  work.  People  used  to  say  that 
you  earned  all  you  needed  by  waiting  at 
night  near  Social  Hall  for  drunken  drivers 
and  bringing  them  to  .  .  ." 

Bessie  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"I  didn't  heed  them,  Bessie.  You  suited 
yourself  about  coming  to  work  for  me.  The 
very  dress  you  are  wearing  must  have  been 
one  of  mine.  And  yet  you  could  consent  to 
become  my  rival,  Bessie  London,  my  rival!" 

"I  love  him,"  said  Bessie  in  a  dull  voice. 

"Oh,  really!"  said  Annabel  with  a  laugh. 
"So  you  love  him!" 

She  lifted  the  little  mirror  and  held  it  out 
to  Bessie. 

"Look  at  yourself,  my  poor  girl,  just  look 
at  yourself." 

The  mirror  reflected  her  homely  face,  mod- 
estly framed  in  bands  of  scanty  yellow  hair. 

"Look  at  yourself,  yes,  look  at  yourself! 


270  SALT   LAKE 

You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  only  married 
me  for  my  money.  You  know  whom  he  really 
loves — it's  that  woman.  You  know,  too,  why 
he  married  you,  wretched  creature,  you  know 
it  quite  well  .  .  ." 

"What  is  that  to  me,  if  I  love  him,"  mut- 
tered Bessie,  attempting  to  tear  her  wrist 
from  the  sick  woman's  grasp. 

"Because  you  can  sew,  iron,  scrape  the  soot 
off  old  kettles,  because  you  can  lug  heavy  sacks 
— because  you,  with  your  chilblained  hands, 
you  belong  in  the  scullery — because  he  doesn't 
have  to  buy  anything  but  cheap,  common 
shoes  for  a  drudge  like  you — because  wives 
are  cheaper  than  servants  in  this  country!" 

"Oh,  hush!"  cried  Bessie,  terrified.  "Hush, 
hush!  You  will  hurt  yourself." 

"Just  look,  look  at  your  face!" 

Bessie  snatched  the  mirror.  Annabel  burst 
into  sobs.  She  continued  heaping  abuse  up- 
on poor  Bessie  who,  unheeding,  rocked  her 
like  a  child  for  nearly  an  hour,  until  she  had 

calmed  herself  and  gone  to  sleep. 

•        •••••• 

A  week  had  passed,  and  neither  one  nor  the 
other  had  made  any  allusion  to  this  scene. 


SALT   LAKE  271 

Then  Annabel  was  able  to  get  out  of  bed. 

One  morning  she  was  sitting  by  the  open 
window,  in  an  arm-chair  that  had  been 
brought  upstairs  for  her  convalescence. 
Bessie  sat  by  her  on  a  stool,  knitting. 

"Bessie,"  said  Annabel,  and  she  leaned  to- 
ward the  young  woman,  who  raised  sad,  timid 
eyes. 

Annabel  took  her  hand. 

"Bessie,  I  am  ashamed  of  the  things  I  said 
to  you  the  other  day.  Don't  be  angry  with 


me." 


"Oh,  how  could  a  servant  .  .  ."  mumbled 
the  unfortunate  Bessie. 

"No,  don't  call  yourself  that  any  more. 
You  know  quite  well  that  you  don't  dare  to 
when  he  is  here.  And  also,  you  must  call  me 
by  my  name,  you  may,  I  insist  upon  it." 

"I  should  never  dare,"  said  Bessie. 

"You  must,"  said  Annabel  gravely.  "If 
you  don't,  I  shan't  dare  tell  you  what  I  want 
you  to  do  for  me — for  there  is  something  I 
want  you  to  do  for  me,  Bessie." 

"Me!"  said  Bessie,  clasping  her  hands.  "Oh 
you  know  I  will.  .  .  ." 

"When  shall  I  be  able  to  go  out?" 


272  SALT   LAKE 

"Today  is  Thursday.  From  Monday 
on  .  .  ." 

"Monday!"  said  Annabel. 

She  reflected  a  moment.  Then,  in  a  quiet, 
colourless  voice: 

"Bessie,  I  want  to  go  away!" 

"Go  away!" 

"Yes,  go  away  from  here,  do  you  under- 
stand, and  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"Me?"  said  Bessie,  trembling. 

"Oh,  I  see,  Bessie,  you  are  afraid!  But  he 
won't  know  you  helped  me.  And,  besides, 
I  would  never  have  said  anything  to  you  if  it 
weren't  in  your  own  interest.  You  still  love 
him,  of  course?" 

Bessie  answered  with  a  nod. 

"Very  well.  If  you  love  him,  you  will  be 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me.  For  I  will  have  recov- 
ered soon  and  you  will  have  a  rival  in  me, 
Bessie.  Yes,  Monday,  Sarah;  Tuesday,  my- 
self— you,  not  until  Wednesday.  If  I  am 
gone,  you  will  have  two  days  extra  a  week. 
It's  worth  a  little  trouble." 

"God  is  my  witness,"  cried  Bessie.  "I  will 
do  it  for  you  and  you  alone!  But  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  be  of  any  help  to  you." 


SALT   LAKE  273 

"I  see  it  quite  well,"  said  the  young  woman. 
"The  main  thing  is  not  to  arouse  suspicion. 
You  market  every  other  day,  don't  you?  You 
see,  you  must  not  go  out  just  on  my  account. 
Is  it  your  turn  today?" 

"No,"  said  Bessie.  "I  go  tomorrow  at 
ten  o'clock." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  wait  until  tomorrow 
Anyway,  I'm  not  in  a  hurry,  since  I  can't  go 
out  until  Monday.  Now,  in  the  meanwhile, 
let's  talk  about  something  else." 

Annabel  had  a  fairly  good  night.  The 
next  day,  about  nine  o'clock,  Bessie  glanced  at 
her  meaningly. 

"I'm  going  downstairs  to  get  ready  to  go  to 
the  store,"  she  said. 

"All  right,"  said  Annabel. 

She  looked  at  Bessie  composedly. 

"The  store  is  not  very  far  from  the  coach- 
office,  is  it?" 

"No,  it's  right  near  it." 

"Well,  you  must  go  to  the  coach-office  and 
try  to  get  the  following  information  without 
being  noticed — is  the  first  squadron  of  the 
Second  Dragoons  still  at  Cedar  Valley?" 


274  SALT   LAKE 

"The  first  squadron  .  .  ."  began  Bessie, 
her  eyes  wide  with  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  said  Annabel,  "there's  nothing  so 
extraordinary  in  that.  You  know  that  the 
Federal  Army  went  into  camp  at  Cedar 
Valley  after  it  left  Salt  Lake,  the  second  of 
last  July.  But  since  then,  relations  between 
the  Washington  Government  and  the  Mor- 
mons have  become  more  cordial  and  most  of 
the  troops  have  been  ordered  back.  Remem- 
ber, you  must  find  out  if  the  first  squadron  of 
the  Second  Dragoons  is  among  the  units  kept 
up  at  Cedar  Valley.  They  can  easily  give 
you  that  information  at  the  coach-office,  since 
all  the  correspondence  for  the  Expeditionary 
Force  goes  through  their  hands.  Will  you 
remember — the  first  squadron  of  the  Second 
Dragoons?" 

"I  will  remember." 

"Go,  then.     I  shall  be  waiting." 

Two  hours  later,  Bessie  was  back. 

"Well?"   asked  Annabel,   paling  slightly. 

"The  first  squadron  is  still  at  Cedar  Valley," 
said  Bessie.  "I  saw  a  case  of  champagne  be- 
ing sent  to  the  major." 


SALT   LAKE  275 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  young  woman,  her 
hand  to  her  heart. 

She  said  succinctly: 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you  to  find  out  what  time 
the  post  leaves  for  Cedar  Valley." 

"I  found  out,  anyway,"  answered  Bessie. 
"At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  It  doesn't 
arrive  there  until  the  morning  after.  There 
is  mail  every  day,  except  Sunday." 

"Good,"  said  Annabel.  "Now,  can  you 
get  me  some  paper  and  a  pen,  without  attract- 
ing attention?" 

Bessie  returned  shortly  with  what  she  had 
been  asked  to  find. 

"Thanks.  Leave  me — don't  return  until 
three  o'clock." 

At  3  o'clock,  Bessie  returned  to  the  room. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  out,  seizing  Annabel's 
hand.  "Now  you  have  a  fever  again!" 

"It's  nothing,  nothing!"  said  the  young 
woman. 

Her  eyes  were  brilliant.  She  paced  back 
and  forth. 

"You  must  find  an  excuse  to  go  right  away, 
Bessie.  Can  you  do  it,  without  arousing  sus- 
picion here?" 


276  SALT   LAKE 

"Yes,"  answered  Bessie.  "Besides,  I  have 
to  go  out.  Sarah  needs  some  pepper — there 
is  none  left." 

"Good,  good!" 

Annabel  thrust  her  hand  under  her  pil- 
low. She  drew  forth  a  letter. 

"You  must  return  to  the  coach-office  and 
mail  this  letter.  It  must  go  by  the  six  o'clock 
post  this  evening." 

Bessie  hesitated  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
fingering  the  letter. 

"Didn't  you  hear?  Oh!  you  may  read  the 
address,  if  you  want  to." 

"It  isn't  that  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"I  would  like  to  know  .  .  ."  said  Bessie 
humbly. 

"What?" 

"If  there  is  anything  in  this  letter  that  is 
liable  to  cause  trouble  to  .  .  ." 

Annabel  looked  at  her  ironically. 

"Forgive  me,"  mumbled  Bessie. 

"You  are  a  fool!"  said  Annabel  sharply. 

"And  besides,  I  don't  have  to  account  to 
you  for  what  I  do." 


SALT   LAKE  277 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  young  woman  meekly, 
"but  .  .  ." 

Annabel    stamped  her  foot. 

"Give  me  back  that  letter.  I  will  go  my- 
self." 

"You  can't  go  out!"  cried  Bessie,  "not  in 
your  condition!  Don't  you  see?  It's  snow- 
ing." 

"Well,  go  then!     Time  flies!" 

And  when  the  wretched  creature  had 
reached  the  doorway,  she  ran  after  her,  em- 
braced her,  kissed  her. 

Bessie  was  speechless  with  emotion. 

On  her  way  out,  Bessie  stopped  in  the 
gloomy  kitchen  to  pick  up  her  basket.  Then 
she  opened  the  street  door.  A  saraband  of 
tiny  grey  snow-flakes  danced  into  the  house. 
Tucking  the  handle  of  the  basket  under  her 
arm,  she  started  to  shut  the  door  behind  her. 
Suddenly,  her  blood  froze.  A  hand  had 
seized  her  hand. 

"Bessie,  dear  Bessie,  just  a  word,  if  you 
please!" 

It  was  Gwinett. 


278  SALT   LAKE 

At  the  same  time,  the  door  closed.  Bessie 
was  back  in  the  dark  hall.  She  could  not 
see  Gwinett,  but  she  felt  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Bessie  dear,  you  ought  not  to  go  out  so 
thinly  dressed." 

He  added  with  an  ironic  inflection  that 
augmented  the  poor  woman's  terror: 

"Don't  you  see?     It's  snowing." 

"I  .  .  ."  she  began. 

And  suddenly,  she  stopped,  filled  with  hor- 
ror. Gwinett's  hand  had  just  been  thrust 
into  her  waist. 

"For  God's  sake,  Bessie,  my  beloved,  don't 
tremble  so.  You  see  that  I  was  right,  after  all 
and  that  it  is  foolish  to  affront  the  inclemencies 
of  the  weather  so  lightly  clad.  I  can  feel  your 
chest,  my  sister,  and  you  must  admit  that  if 
only  for  decency's  sake,  you  ought  to.  ... 
Hello!  pray  tell  me  what  this  is?" 

He  had  found  the  letter. 

(<Do  me  the  favour  of  going  back  to  the 
kitchen,"  he  ordered. 

She  obeyed.     He  lit  a  lamp. 

"Really,    a    letter!     How    amazing,    dear 


SALT   LAKE  279 

Bessie,  and  I  thought  you  didn't  know  how  to 
write!" 

So  saying,  he  dragged  her  towards  a  dark 
store-room  at  one  end  of  the  kitchen.  He 
pushed  her  into  it  and  locked  the  door. 

She  stayed  there  half  an  hour.  Then  the 
key  turned  in  the  lock.  He  stood  there, 
smiling,  a  coat  over  his  arm. 

"I  restore  you,  Bessie  dear,  the  letter  en- 
trusted to  you.  Do  me  the  great  favour  of 
putting  on  this  coat.  It  is  snowing  harder 
than  ever.  Now  hurry.  The  clock  just 
struck  five  and  the  post  leaves  at  six." 

She  looked  at  him  in  stupefaction.  He 
omiled  again. 

"Besides,  dear  little  scatter-brain,  I'll  wager 
that  you've  forgotten  it  will  cost  ten  cents  to 
aend  that  letter.  Ten  cents,  Bessie!  You 
haven't  that  much,  have  you?  Here  you 


are." 


He  held  out  a  silver  coin  to  her.  He 
guided  her  to  the  door. 

"Have  a  nice  walk,"  he  said.  "And  re- 
member that  it  will  be  better  for  you  and  our 
dear  Anna  if  no  one,  not  a  soul,  do  you  hear, 
learns  about  our  little  chat." 


280  SALT   LAKE 

Winter  quarters  are  always  dull.  They 
are  duller  than  ever  when  it  happens  that  the 
camp  is  but  a  scattering  of  huts  in  a  clearing, 
twenty  miles  from  any  centre  of  human  habi- 
tation. In  those  circumstances,  the  most  taci- 
turn will  rapidly  resort  to  gambling — the 
most  sober  will  take  to  drinking. 

Lieutenant  Rutledge  had  spent  the  night 
gambling  and  drinking.  When  he  went  to 
bed,  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he 
pinned  a  note  on  the  door  of  his  hut,  with  in- 
structions to  Ned,  his  orderly,  not  to  waken 
him  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for  morning 
report. 

The  orderly  followed  instructions  to  the 
letter  and  did  not  awaken  him  until  half  past 
nine,  since  morning  report  was  not  called  until 
half  past  ten.  But  Rutledge  lingered  for  half 
an  hour  more,  enjoying  the  warmth  of  his  bed. 
When  he  arose,  he  found  that  he  would  barely 
have  time  to  dress  after  the  vigorous  ablutions 
performed  by  every  American  officer  with 
self-respect. 

He  stood  under  a  cedar,  half  naked  in  the 
cold  morning  air.  Ned  was  splashing  a  pail- 
ful of  icy  water  on  the  torso  of  this  Anglo- 


SALT    LAKE  281 

Saxon  Apollo.  Meanwhile  the  postman  ar- 
rived upon  the  scene,  saluted,  waited  until  the 
shower-bath  was  over,  and  handed  the  lieu- 
tenant Annabel's  letter. 

Rutledge  did  not  recognize  the  handwrit- 
ing. He  had  probably  never  seen  it  before. 
Besides,  he  was  late.  It  was  quarter  after  ten. 
He  had  barely  time  to  return  to  his  hut  and 
dress,  leaving  the  letter,  still  sealed,  on  a  table. 

Generaal  Johnston  was  in  a  bad  humour. 
Briefly,  he  acquainted  his  officers  with  some 
orders  he  had  just  received.  During  the 
week,  the  Fifth  Regiment  of  Infantry  and  one 
of  the  two  batteries  of  artillery  were  to  leave 
Cedar  Valley  on  their  way  to  Kansas,  where 
the  events  resulting  from  the  Abolitionist 
Campaign  were  beginning  to  cause  uneasiness. 
After  that  date,  the  Expeditionary  Force 
would  comprise  solely  the  first  squadron  of 
the  second  Dragoons,  the  second  battalion  of 
the  Tenth  Infantry  and  a  battery  of  artillery. 
General  Johnston  was  unable  to  withhold  a 
few  cutting  remarks  aimed  at  Governor  Cum- 
ming,  whom  he  held  responsible  for  this  cur- 
tailment of  his  authority.  The  failure  of  the 
expedition  and  the  victory  of  pro-Mor- 


282  SALT   LAKE 

mon    politics    seemed     assured    henceforth. 

"Have  any  of  you  gentlemen  any  questions 
to  ask?  Very  well.  You  may  retire." 

The  officers  returned  to  their  quarters. 

When  Rutledge  entered  his  hut,  he  noticed 
the  letter  on  the  table.  He  had  forgotten  it. 
He  opened  it.  As  he  read  along,  signs  of 
great  emotion  flooded  his  countenance.  In  all 
fairness,  it  must  be  added  that  he  did  not 
hesitate  for  a  moment.  Five  minutes  had  not 
passed  before  he  found  himself  back  in  the 
orderly  room. 

Captain  Van  Vliet  happened  to  be  alone, 
filing  away  papers. 

"What  do  you  want,  Lieutenant?" 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  the   General, 


sir." 


Captain  Van  Vliet  looked  at  him,  some- 
what surprised.  Rutledge  was  pale. 

"I'll  go  and  tell  him." 

He  came  back  almost  immediately. 

"The  general  is  busy.  <He  wants  me  to 
find  out  .  .  ." 

"Sir,"  mumbled  Rutledge,  "it's  a  confiden- 
tial matter  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  the  deuce!"  said  Van  Vliet.    "Well, 


SALT   LAKE  283 

I'll  try  again.  But  you  saw  how  he  was  a 
while  ago — he's  in  a  devilish  temper  today. 
If  I  fail,  don't  blame  me,  and  if  I  succeed, 
look  out  for  yourself." 

Behind  the  partition,  Rutledge  heard  an 
oath  from  which  he  inferred  that  his  insist- 
ence was  most  inopportune.  But  he  was  a 
man  of  honour  and  he  controlled  himself. 

"Go  in,"  said  Van  Vliet,  reappearing. 

And  he  left  them  alone  prudently,  closing 
the  door  like  a  keeper  who  had  just  introduced 
a  lamb  into  the  lion's  den. 

Rutledge  stood  at  attention  where  Van 
Vliet  had  left  him.  The  general  made  for 
him  angrily. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Sir  ..." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  something  at  orderly 
hour?  I  believe  I  asked,  as  usual,  if  any  of 
you  had  anything  to  say  to  me." 

"Sir,  I  hadn't  read  this  letter  then." 

Johnston  held  out  his  hand.  Rutledge 
withdrew  his  hastily. 

"Oh,  really,  Lieutenant,  I  had  absolutely 
no  intention  of  violating  the  secrets  of  your 
correspondence,"  said  the  general  dryly. 


284  SALT   LAKE 

The  interview  was  not  beginning  very 
auspiciously.  Rutledge  made  a  gesture  of 
despairing  protest. 

"I  ask  you  again,  Lieutenant,  what  do  you 
want?  And  be  quick  about  it." 

"Sir,"  said  Rutledge,  quaking  inwardly, 
"I  would  like  to  have  a  forty-eight  hour 
leave." 

The  general  eyed  him  in  stupefaction.  It 
was  the  first  time  any  one  had  made  a  similar 
request  in  all  the  five  months  that  the  Army 
had  spent  in  Cedar  Valley. 

"A  forty-eight  hour  leave!"  he  roared. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  confess  that  I  don't  quite  see  the  necessity 
for  it,"  said  Johnston  glaring  at  him.  "Forty- 
eight  hours!  It's  too  much  if  you  want  to  go 
hunting  wild  duck  on  Lake  Tumpanogos  and 
it's  mighty  short  if  you  think  you're  going  to 
Salt  Lake  to  paint  the  town  red!" 

"Forty-eight  hours  will  do,  sir,"  said  Rut- 
ledge  unassumingly. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Johnston,  "I  must  con- 
clude that  you  want  to  go  to  Salt  Lake  on  a 
spree." 

"It's  true  that  I  want  to  go  to  Salt  Lake 


SALT   LAKE  285 

City,  sir,"  said  Rutledge,  blushing,  "but  allow 
me  to  say  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  blurted  out  John- 
ston, banging  the  table  with  his  fist.  "Upon 
my  word,  where  have  you  been  all  this  time! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  my  men  are 
forbidden  to  set  foot  in  that  confounded  place 
except  on  service,  strictly  on  service.  And 
you  know,  too,  that  I  am  not  at  all  anxious  to 
furnish  His  -Honour  Governor  Cumming  an 
occasion  to  trip  me  up.  You  are  fully  aware 
of  all  this.  And  yet  here  you  come  and 
blissfully  have  the  nerve  to  ask  for  what — of 
all  things!  A  leave  for  Salt  Lake  City! 
Pray  have  the  goodness  to  unfold  the  motives 
which  led  you  to  make  such  a  preposterous 
request." 

Without  a  word,  Rutledge  handed  him 
Annabel's  letter.  Johnston,  vexed,  was  wav- 
ing it  back,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  young 
man's  tormented  features.  He  smothered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  took  the 
letter. 

As  he  read,  his  face  reflected  contradictory, 
but  none  the  less  violent  emotions. 

"Poor    woman!     Begging    for    help    like 


286  SALT   LAKE 

this — who  can  it  be?"  he  asked,  handing  the 
letter  back  to  Rutledge. 

"Mrs.   Lee,  sir,"  mumbled  the  lieutenant. 

"Annabel  Lee?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Mrs.  Lee!"  repeated  Johnston.  "Is  it 
possible!  How  infamous!" 

And  he  clasped  his  hands  commiseratingly. 
The  picture  of  the  pretty  blonde  amazon 
had  not  been  forgotten  at  the  officers'  mess  in 
Cedar  Valley. 

"How  infamous!"  said  the  general  again 
in  a  low  voice. 

And  Rutledge  was  frightened  by  the  sudden 
fire  that  flamed  angrily  in  his  eyes. 

Johnston  paced  up  and  down  the  room  with 
long  strides,  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"The  scoundrels!  The  dirty  scoundrels!" 
he  repeated  over  and  over. 

Somewhat  calmer,  he  came  back  to  Rut- 
ledge. 

"You  are  a  splendid  fellow,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  "and  I'm  glad  you  confided  in  me.  You 
can  be  sure  that  I  won't  betray  any  of  the 
confidential  details  of  our  conversation,"  he 
added  with  a  frank  open  smile.  "But  as  for 


SALT   LAKE  287 

the  rest  .  .  ."  and  he  pounded  on  the  table 
with  his  fist,  "this  affair  is  beyond  you,  my 
lad.  You  will  probably  go  to  Salt  Lake,  all 
right,  but  on  a  mission,  not  on  a  leave.  Van 
Vliet!" 

In  the  ante-room,  Captain  Van  Vliet,  hear- 
ing the  shouting,  sat  nursing  the  darkest  fears 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  protege's  reception. 
When,  summoned  by  his  chief,  he  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  he  almost  collapsed  in  aston- 
ishment seeing  the  general  effusively  shaking 
hands  with  Rutledge. 

Briefly  acquainted  with  the  facts,  the  cap- 
tain was  quick  to  share  Johnston's  indigna- 
tion. Van  Vliet  had  been  entertained  at  the 
villa  and  evinced  a  certain  gratitude  towards 
Annabel,  which  had  been  tinged,  at  one  time, 
perhaps,  with  a  stronger  sentiment. 

"The  wretches!"  he  said  as  he  finished  the 
letter. 

"The  wretches,  no,"  said  Johnston,  "the 
scoundrels!  I  am  glad,  Van  Vliet,  that  at 
last  you  agree  with  me  about  Governor  Gum- 
ming!" 

"I  meant  the  Mormons,  sir,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. 


288  SALT   LAKE 

"They  are  all  birds  of  a  feather!"  cried 
Johnston.  "Captain,  you  make  me  laugh. 
Before  appealing  to  us,  before  writing  Rut- 
ledge  a  letter  that  might  ruin  her,  the  poor 
thing  must  have  gone  to  Cumming,  who  had 
been  entertained  at  her  house  and  who  knows 
well  what  help  she  has  been  to  us.  But  no! 
It  would  have  been  contrary  to  that  individ- 
ual's disgraceful  policy  to  come  to  her  rescue! 
It  would  have  proved  that  his  good  friends 
the  Mormons  were  wrong,  and  that  I  was 
right!  Oh,  the  low-down  scoundrel!" 

"Calm  yourself,  sir,"  said  Van  Vliet,  "calm 
yourself.  For  the  time  being,  the  most  im- 
portant thing  is  to  help  Mrs.  Lee,  to  save  her 
from  her  tragic  fate.  What  do  you  intend  to 
do?" 

"Have  her  brought  here,  what  do  you  sup- 
pose?" said  Johnston.  "Possibly  this  camp 
is  not  a  very  suitable  shelter  for  a  lady,  but  at 
least  she  will  be  safe,  and  among  men  of  hon- 
our, until  I  can  manage  to  send  her  back 
East,  where  the  poor  woman  would  have 
been  long  ago,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  us.  We 
are  partly  responsible  for  this,  gentlemen. 
I'm  not  sure  that  you  quite  realize  it." 


SALT   LAKE  289 

Rutledge  bowed  his  head. 

"Meanwhile,"  pursued  Johnston,  "she  can 
give  me  certain  information  which  I'll  war- 
rant will  force  the  powers  that  be  to  demand  a 
few  explanations  from  Mr.  Cumming  that 
may  embarrass  him  considerably." 

"We'll  see  to  that  afterwards.  You  have 
to  get  her  here  first,"  said  Van  Vliet.  "What 
are  your  plans?" 

"Oh!  I  wouldn't  need  much  urging  to  go 
fetch  her  myself,"  said  Johnston.  "But  it 
would  be  a  rather  risky  enterprise,  I  admit. 
So  Lieutenant  Rutledge  will  go,  as  he  has  been 
asked  to  do.  Mrs.  Lee  has  arranged  to  meet 
him  tomorrow  evening  after  six  o'clock,  at 
the  bend  in  the  Provo  road,  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  bridge  on  the  Jordon — I  see  the  place 
as  if  I  were  there.  Please  take  notice  of  the 
time  set.  It  means  that  the  woman  is  watched 
and  that  she  cannot  go  out  in  Salt  Lake  City 
by  daylight.  It's  a  national  disgrace!" 

"Mrs.  Lee  is  not  an  American  citizen,"  Van 
Vliet  thought  fit  to  say. 

He  was  crushed  by  a  look  from  General 
Johnston,  who  said: 

"Let   me    proceed.     Lieutenant    Rutledge 


290  SALT   LAKE 

will  have  to  be  prudent.  He  must  have  some 
kind  of  a  pretext  to  account  for  his  presence 
in  Salt  Lake  City,  if  need  be.  I  take  the  rest 
upon  myself." 

"It  won't  be  hard  to  find  a  pretext,  sir," 
said  Van  Vliet  with  alacrity. 

"I  leave  it  to  you,  then." 

"Dyer  and  Company,"  said  the  Captain, 
"located  on  Main  Street  in  Salt  Lake,  bidded 
to  supply  the  Expeditionary  Force  with 
cereals  and  grain.  But  the  price  agreed  on 
was  based  on  a  total  of  six  thousand  men  and 
three  thousand  horses  and  mules.  Now,  this 
week,  these  figures  are  going  to  be  cut  by 
half  according  to  the  orders  you  issued  this 
morning.  In  the  first  place,  we  must  notify 
Mr.  Dyer  of  this — in  the  second  place,  we 
must  try  to  secure  the  same  rates  for  three 
thousand  men  as  agreed  upon  for  six  thousand. 
I  had  intended  writing  him  today,  but  of 
course  it  is  more  satisfactory  to  deal  verbally, 
besides  being  the  correct  thing." 

"Fine!"  said  the  general.  "Van  Vliet, 
please  make  out  a  pass  for  Lieutenant  Rut- 
ledge,  to  be  signed  by  me,  and  rehearse  him 
carefully,  so  that  he  will  be  able  to  discuss 


SALT   LAKE  291 

that  wheat  and  flour  business  somewhat  in- 
telligently with  Mr.  Dyer.  When  do  you 
leave,  Rutledge?" 

"Tonight,  sir,  if  it  suits  you,  so  that  the 
horses  will  be  in  good  shape  tomorrow  even- 
ing." 

"Are  your  horses  good?" 

"Mine  is  good,  sir,  and  so  is  my  orderly's. 
I'll  take  him  along,  with  your  permission." 

"Certainly.  You  need  a  horse  for  Mrs. 
Lee,  besides.  See  that  she  has  one  of  mine, 
Van  Vliet.  And  take  a  private.  One  man 
will  not  be  enough  to  watch  the  three  horses. 
You  will  not  halt  on  the  way  back.  I  may 
possibly  go  to  meet  you  about  nine  o'clock 
with  a  few  dragoons.  The  boys  need  a  little 
shaking  up  now  and  then.  And  once  more, 
Lieutenant  Rutledge,  be  careful.  I'll  see  you 
before  you  go." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Rutledge  arrived  at  the  Holy  City  after  an  un- 
eventful ride.  At  a  road-house,  he  left  his 
men,  who  had  his  instructions,  and  entered 
town  on  foot. 

He  expected  to  be  stopped  at  the  first  out- 


292  SALTLAKE 

post  and  asked  for  his  papers.  So  it  hap- 
pened. At  the  end  of  the  bridge,  stood  a 
police-sentry  who  examined  his  pass,  then 
bowing: 

"Lieutenant  Rutledge,  I  believe?"  he  said. 

"Why,  of  course!" 

"Lieutenant,  I  have  orders  to  ask  you  to 
please  present  yourself  at  Governor  Cum- 
ming's  house." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Rutjedge,  disagreeably 
surprised. 

"Sergeant  Roby  will  show  you  the  way, 


sir." 


"Well,  hurry  up.  Where  is  your  ser- 
geant?" 

Sergeant  Roby  was  reading  his  Bible  down 
by  the  Jordan,  where  little  black  ducks 
were  paddling  about  in  the  rosy  morning 
light.  He  put  himself  at  Rutledge's  disposal. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  they  arrived  at 
the  Governor's  mansion.  The  starry  banner, 
swelled  by  the  sharp  breeze,  waved  gently 
over  the  door. 

Rutledge  was  shown  into  a  large  conserva- 
tory, filled  with  tropical  plants. 


SALT   LAKE  293 

A  secretary  appeared  and,  bowing  very 
low,  said: 

"Governor  Gumming  was  obliged  to  go  out 
on  a  tour  of  inspection.  He  presents  his 
apologies  to  Lieutenant  Rutledge,  who  he 
hopes  will  have  the  kindness  to  lunch  with 
him." 

"Well,  well!"  thought  Rutledge.  "Ser- 
geant Roby  must  have  told  these  people  my 
name.  It  doesn't  matter,  they  are  really 
quite  courteous  in  this  establishment.  Let  us 
wait  and  see.  Anyway,  I  wonder  what  I 
could  have  done  with  myself,  ailone  in  this 
ghastly  town  all  day.  My  uniform  had  better 
not  be  too  conspicuous." 

And,  comfortably  installed  in  a  wicker 
arm-chair,  he  perused  both  European  and 
American  newspapers  as  he  waited  for  Gov- 
ernor Gumming  composedly. 

The  governor,  who  returned  about  ten 
o'clock,  radiated  an  amiability  that  dispelled 
certain  obscure  apprehensions  that  had 
dawned  upon  Rutledge.  Luncheon  served  in 
the  conservatory  was  perfect  in  all  its  details. 
Rutledge  had  a  chance  to  hold  forth  on  the 
official  object  of  his  visit.  They  conversed 


294  SALTLAKE 

gravely  on  questions  concerning  army  sup- 
plies. 

"If  I  could,  I  would  give  General  Johnston 
the  following  advice — not  to  set  his  heart  on 
accumulating  too  large  a  stock  of  supplies. 
Sooner  or  later,  they  get  the  best  of  you." 

"Mr.  Dyer's  store  is  on  Main  Street,  I  be- 
lieve," said  Rutledge. 

"I  will  send  for  him,"  said  the  governor. 
"A  contractor  ought  to  put  himself  out — it's 
the  least  he  can  do." 

So  saying,  he  finished  peeling  a  banana. 
He  put  down  his  knife,  opened  his  portfolio 
and  took  out  a  paper. 

"So  you  are  going  back  to  Cedar  Valley 
tonight?" 

"Tonight." 

"If  that's  the  case,"  said  the  governor 
slowly,  "take  my  advice  and  don't  wait  until 
dark  to  leave  the  city!" 

"Until  dark!"  cried  Rutledge,  who  could 
not  believe  his  ears. 

"Please  glance  over  this,"  said  Gumming 
amiably,  handing  Lieutenant  Rutledge  the 
paper  he  had  just  taken  from  his  portfolio. 


SALT   LAKE  295 

Rutledge  groaned.  Before  him  was  a 
duplicate  of  Annabel's  letter. 

The  governor  took  back  the  paper,  folded 
it  carefully,  put  it  back  in  his  portfolio. 
While  doing  so,  he  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  the 
lieutenant. 

"So  you  came  to  get  her?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Rutledge  hung  his  head. 

"•Have  a  little  drink  of  rum,"  suggested 
Cumming. 

He  looked  at  the  lieutenant  with  a  sorrow- 
ful expression. 

"I  suppose,  sir,  that  you  have  heard  about 
the  trouble  Colonel  Steptoe  had  right  here,  a 
few  years  ago?" 

"Colonel  Steptoe?" 

"He  was  commanding  the  American  troops 
which  were  crossing  Utah  on  their  way  to 
California.  During  their  halt  in  Salt  Lake 
City,  the  troops  conducted  themselves  in  a 
manner  unworthy  of  American  soldiers. 
Wives  of  decent  Mormons  were  debauched, 
carried  off  by  the  army.  You  are  acquainted 
with  the  distressing  results  of  the  misconduct 
of  our  men — how  suspicious  the  Mormons 


296  SALTLAKE 

grew  of  the  Union — how  hostilities  smold- 
ered at  first,  then  broke  out  openly — how 
President  Buchanan  decided  on  a  military 
expedition.  You  know  the  rest.  Between 
you  and  me,  sir,  painful  as  it  is  to  admit,  God 
knows,  Right  has  not  been  on  our  side!" 

He  paused. 

"You  know  how  hard  I  have  tried  to  smooth 
out  these  deplorable  misunderstandings.  Do 
you  want  to  undo  my  work  by  your  heedless- 
ness?  ^Haven't  you  thought  of  the  untold 
trouble  you  would  bring  upon  your  general, 
who  has  signed  your  pass  in  all  good  faith, 
for,  of  course,"  added  the  governor  in  a  hon- 
eyed voice,  as  he  gazed  at  his  interlocutor, 
"Johnston  is  not  in  your  confidence  and  .  .  ." 

Rutledge  saw  the  trap. 

"The  General  knows  nothing  of  this,"  he 
said,  stiffening. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad !"  said  Gumming.  "Then, 
this  whole  affair  is  nothing  but  a  childish 
prank  of  yours.  Rest  assured,"  he  added  with 
an  ironic  glance,  "that  I  shall  never  mention 
it  to  the  General." 

The  officer  was  completely  disconcerted. 
Gumming  arose  and  caught  his  hand. 


SALTLAKE  297 

"Poor  boy!"  he  said  pityingly.  "Have  you 
carefully  considered  what  you  are  undertak- 
ing?" 

"I  fear  no  one,"  said  Rutledge,  on  the  verge 
of  tears. 

"A  natural  sentiment  in  an  American 
officer,"  said  Cumming.  "I  should  be  the 
last  to  criticize  it.  But  it  amounts  to  very 
little  when  its  object  is  unworthy." 

The  lieutenant  could  no  longer  control  him- 
self. 

"Mr.  Governor,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  re- 
member that  you  have  sat  at  Mrs.  Lee's  table 
and  that  she  has  sat  at  yours!" 

"Yes,  she  has  been  my  guest,  but  probably 
she  never  will  be  again,  although  she  has 
married  a  man  who  is  bound  to  become  one  of 
the  high  dignitaries  of  the  Mormon  Church 
and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  am  accused  of 
partiality  to  that  sect." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

The  governor  smiled  at  him  regretfully. 

"You  are  a  mere  boy,"  he  said,  "a  mere  boy. 
What  a  pity!  You  who  have  the  good  luck  to 
be  engaged  to  such  an  accomplished  young 
lady  as  Miss  Regina  Spalding!" 


298  SALT   LAKE 

"Please  let  my  fiancee  alone!"  blurted  out 
Rutledge,  beside  himself.  "She  has  nothing 
to  do  with  this!" 

"The  other  woman  is  not  worth  your 
while!"  said  Gumming  forcefully. 

"You  yourself  are  responsible  for  her  mis- 
fortunes!" muttered  Rutledge,  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

Governor  Gumming  looked  serious. 

"One  night,  all  night  long,"  he  said,  "I 
blamed  myself  as  you  have  just  blamed  me. 
The  unfortunate  creature  had  rung  my  door 
bell  about  ten  o'clock  at  night.  I  was  in- 
formed of  it.  For  a  moment,  I  was  tempted 
to  see  her.  Then  I  reflected  that  Mormon  law 
forbids  a  lady  worthy  of  the  name  to  be  seen 
on  the  streets  at  night.  I  would  have  been  an 
accomplice,  had  I  received  Mrs.  Gwinett  at 
that  late  hour — worse,  it  would  have  looked 
as  if  I  were  taking  sides  in  one  of  those  petty 
family  quarrels,  which  outsiders  have  no 
business  mixing  in,  as  you  will  find  out  some 
day,"  he  added  with  a  knowing  smile.  "At 
any  rate,  I  closed  my  door  to  her.  I  was  dis- 
turbed all  night  by  a  feeling  that  I  took  to  be 
remorse.  But  in  the  morning,  I  had  the  sad 


SALT   LAKE  299 

satisfaction  of  leaning  that  I  had  not  mistaken 
my  duty." 

He  went  to  a  file,  opened  it,  took  out  a 
bundle  of  papers  which  he  fingered  over,  then 
came  back  to  his  guest. 

"Will  you  read  this?"  he  asked. 

"What  is  it?"  questioned  Rutledge  despon- 
dently. 

"A  police  report,"  said  the  governor,  "a 
police  report  relative  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  wretched  woman  spent  the  night,  after  she 
left  my  threshold." 

Rutledge  horrified  waved  the  paper  away. 

"I  understand  your  feelings,"  said  Gum- 
ming, "but  you  must  be  told — you  must!  You 
will  thank  me  some  day.  Well,  then  let  me 
tell  you.  That  night,  the  very  night  I  had 
been  on  the  point  of  seeing  her,  she  spent  in  a 
house  of  ill-fame — you  understand  me.  She 
did  not  leave  it  until  dawn.  Do  you  want  to 
see  the  report?  No,  of  course  not.  Come, 
come,  I  sympathize  with  you.  But  she  is 
lost  to  you,  lost  for  ever." 

About  two  o'clock,  Rutledge  had  to  submit 
to  a  visit  from  Mr.  Dyer,  whom  the  governor 
had  sent  for.  The  worthy  merchant  had 


300  SALT   LAKE 

never  before  dealt  with  an  agent  who  knew  so 
little  about  the  interests  he  represented.  He 
was  not  slow  in  taking  advantage  of  the  fact. 

At  three  o'clock,  Governor  Gumming  said 
to  Rutledge:  "It  is  time  to  go." 

Rutledge  was  overcome  with  emotion. 

"What  am  I  going  to  tell  them,  what  can 
I  tell  them?"  he  stammered. 

"Tell  whom?"  asked  the  governor  with  a 
slight  smile.  "I  thought  no  one  at  camp 
knew  anything  about  the  real  object  of  your 
trip?" 

"I  mean  orderlies,"  said  the  lieutenant 
blushing,  "they  are  very  devoted  to  me. 
They  are  waiting  for  me  on  the  banks  of  the 
Jordan." 

"Indeed?"  said  Gumming  calmly.  "You 
only  have  to  tell  them  that  you  waited  for 
the  person  in  question  until  two  o'clock  and 
that  she  did  not  keep  the  appointment." 

There  was  a  silence.     Dusk  was  falling. 

"•Have  I  your  word  of  honour  as  an 
American  officer  that  you  will  be  in  your 
saddle  by  four  o'clock,  on  your  way  back  to 
camp?" 

Rutledge   responded   mechanically: 


SALT   LAKE  301 

"You  have  my  word!" 

"Good!"  said  Gumming.  "I  will  see  that 
you  are  escorted  to  the  bridge." 

On  the  threshold  of  the  conservatory,  they 
shook  hands. 

"Good-bye,  and  remember  that  there  is 
some  one  here  who  will  not  forget  you  when 
General  Johnston's  recommendations  for 
promotion  come  through  this  office — they  all 
do,  you  know,"  he  added  laughingly. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Rutledge  was 
in  the  saddle,  the  two  soldiers  likewise.  At 
first,  they  galloped,  then  trotted,  and  then 
slackened  their  horses  pace.  They  must  not 
arrive  in  camp  too  early. 

The  moon  had  risen.  It  shone  on  the 
empty  stirrups  of  the  mare  that  General 
Johnston  had  destined  for  Annabel  Lee. 

A  month,  perhaps,  had  gone  by.  Annabel 
was  in  the  kitchen  that  evening,  peeling 
vegetables  for  the  next  day.  It  was  mortally 
cold  outdoors.  The  kitchen  was  lighted  by 
the  flames  in  the  fire-place.  Annabel  sat  by 
the  hearth. 


302  SALT   LAKE 

Some  one  knocked  discreetly. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  cracked  voice. 

The  door  opened. 

"Are  you  there,  Brother  Jemini?"  called 
a  voice. 

Annabel  arose.  She  shuddered  when  she 
saw  the  newcomer. 

It  was  Herbert  Kimball,  feared,  after 
Brigham  Young,  more  than  any  one  in  Salt 
Lake  City — Brigham  Young's  confidant  and 
the  secret  executor  of  his  orders.  Parents 
could  terrorize  their  children  by  mention- 
ing his  name  and  more  than  one  high  digni- 
tary feared  him  like  Satan  himself. 

There  was  nothing  terrifying  about  the 
pale,  unobtrusive  old  man,  except  his  eyes. 
His  manners  were  the  best  in  the  world. 

"No,  Brother  Herbert,  he  isn't  here,"  said 
Annabel  trembling. 

But  the  little  man  struck  his  forehead  and 
laughed. 

"How  foolish  of  me!  Brother  Jemini  is 
at  the  Tabernacle,  of  course,  with  the  Elders 
and  the  Apostles.  I  had  forgotten  that  there 
is  a  big  assembly  at  church  tonight.  But  I 
suppose  I  can  see  Sister  Sarah?" 


SALT   LAKE  303 

"She  is  away,  too,"  said  Annabel.  "She 
is  at  her  parents'  house,  and  she  wont  be  back 
until  late.  Probably  she  will  even  stay  there 
for  supper." 

"It's  too  bad,  too  bad,"  said  Kimball.  As 
he  spoke,  he  had  come  close  to  her. 

"So  you  are  alone  here,  Sister  Anna,  all 
alone?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  drawing  back. 

But  he  had  already  seized  her  arm. 

"Then  follow  me,"  he  whispered  to  her 
imperatively,  "and  be  quick!" 

He  had  not  given  her  time  to  take  a  wrap. 
The  ground  was  coated  with  icy  sleet.  They 
walked  so  fast  that  several  times  she  almost 
fell. 

At  last  they  came  to  an  impressive  house 
which  Annabel,  with  fright,  recognized  as  the 
mansion  belonging  to  the  President  of  the 
Church. 

They  entered  the  house  by  the  back-door. 

"Wait  for  me  here,"  said  Kimball,  leaving 
her  alone  in  the  hall. 

He  came  back  soon. 

"Come  in." 


304  SALTLAKE 

There  were  two  men  in  the  room,  which  was 
furnished  rather  sumptuously.  They  were 
talking  quietly,  sitting  in  big  arm-chairs  on 
either  side  of  a  table  litered  with  papers.  On 
it  was  a  powerful  green-shaded  light. 

One  of  the  two  men  faced  the  door.  His 
heavy,  shaven  face  got  the  full  glare  of  the 
lamp.  Annabel  recognized  Brigham  Young. 

His  companion  sat  facing  him,  so  that  only 
his  back  was  visible.  He  turned  around  when 
Annabel  entered. 

It  was  Pere  d'Exiles. 


H 


CHAPTER  IX 

AW'S  RANCH,  a  six  days'  ride 
from  Sailt  Lake  City,  was  a  tradi- 
tional halt  for  travellers  on  their 
way  from  the  Mormon  capital  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, through  Carson  Valley  and  Sacramento. 

The  honourable  Peter  Haws,  proprietor  of 
the  ranch,  which  gave  the  place  its  name,  was 
a  Mormon  who  had  theological  differences 
with  Brigham  Young.  When  his  notions  on 
man's  lot  here  below  had  been  frowned  upon 
by  the  Church  Assembly,  he  had  retired  to 
this  deserted  valley.  Here  he  lived  peace- 
fully with  his  wife,  the  worthy  Rebecca  Haws. 
For  the  sake  of  comparison  if  we  liken  Joseph 
Smith  to  Jesus  Christ  and  Brigham  Young  to 
Pope  Borgia,  Peter  Haws  played  Savonarola 
in  his  hermitage — a  bearded,  wedded  and 
agricultural  Savonarola. 

;He  was  esteemed  by  travellers  and  Indians 
alike.  Sokopitz,  chief  of  the  Shoshonees 
came  often  to  break  bread  with  him. 

That  day,  or  rather  that  evening,  for  the 
305 


306  SALT   LAKE 

sun  was  darting  its  dying  rays  on  the  surround- 
ing granite  peaks,  Peter  Haws  received  a 
visit  from  Mr.  Joshuah  Doniphan,  a  book- 
keeper at  the  Hughes  Bank  in  San  Francisco, 
which  had  just  opened  a  branch  in  Salt  Lake 
City,  in  competition  with  the  Livingston  and 
Kinkead  Bank.  Mr.  Doniphan  had  left  Salt 
Lake  the  week  before.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  San  Francisco,  with  instructions  to  make 
an  oral  report  to  the  directors  of  the  firm  con- 
cerning the  operations  of  the  new  branch  in 
Utah.  A  city  man,  unaccustomed  to  long 
journeys  across  the  desert,  he  particularly 
appreciated  the  welcome  he  found  at  Haw's 
Ranch. 

"This  man,"  said  Peter  to  Rebecca,  "stays 
until  day  after  tomorrow.  It  would  be  good 
policy  to  give  him  a  fine  feed  tomorrow. 
There  is  just  as  much  for  four  as  for  three  in 
a  turkey.  So  you  can  be  glad  to  know,  dear 
Rebecca,  that  I  intend  to  have  our  friend,  the 
Father,  who  asked  me,  as  a  personal  favour, 
not  to  let  him  lose  any  chance  to  get  fresh 
news  from  Salt  Lake  City." 

Pere  d'Exiles  was  about  ten  miles  from 


SALT   LAKE  307 

Haw's  Ranch  when  the  invitation  was  brought 
to  him  by  a  little  boy — a  child  of  the  prairies. 
He  abandoned  his  proselytes,  none  too  numer- 
ous at  that  moment,  and  arrived  at  the  ranch 
just  in  time  for  lunch. 

The  meal  was  quite  a  success.  Mr  Josh- 
uah  Doniphan  was  an  agreeable  companion, 
rather  well  read,  and  a  lover  of  botany.  Pere 
d'Exiles  had  soon  won  his  friendship  by  de- 
scribing the  characteristics  of  the  odd  plants 
in  the  district. 

"All  the  monocotyledons  died  this  season. 
But  on  the  plains,  we  can  find  gramineae,  a 
few  scrophulariaceae,  two  asclepias.  Let  me 
add  that  the  edible  orobanche  grows  wild  in 
our  hostess'  garden.  Then  if  you  are  inter- 
ested in  ligneous  phenomena,  I  will  take  you 
to  see  one  of  the  cottonwoods  along  the  brook. 
Chopped  off  near  the  ground,  it  has  grown  a 
crown  of  shoots,  sprouting  between  wood  and 
bark.  Each  sprout  is  surrounded  by  a  mass 
of  fibres,  which  tend  to  reach  the  ground. 
There  is  an  interesting  fact  in  this,  which 
would  seem  to  verify  Gaudichaud's  phyton 
theory." 

They    interrupted    their    dissertations    to 


308  SALT    LAKE 

praise  the  meal  courteously  and,  more  gener- 
ally, to  extoll  Haw's  achievements  in  this 
desert 

Applauded  by  the  Jesuit,  Doniphan  quoted 
Virgil  and  amiably  compared  their  host  to  the 
old  man  of  CEbalus : 
Regum  aequabat  opes  animo;  seraque  rever- 

tens 

Node  domum,  dapibus  mensas  onerabat  in- 
emptis. 

Then  everybody,  including  Rebecca,  joined 
in  a  toast  to  the  prosperity  of  the  ranch  and 
— unexplicitly — to  the  triumph  of  progressive 
ideas. 

As  he  sat  down  again,  Pere  d'Exiles,  who 
dealt  skilfully  in  commonplaces  upon  the 
occasion,  said: 

"It's  really  a  pleasure,  isn't  it,  to  have  an 
occupation  which  gives  you  the  leisure  to 
study  the  immortal  masterpieces  of  the 
Ancients." 

Mr.  Doniphan  lowered  his  eyes  mod- 
estly. 

"To  do  myself  justice,"  he  said,  "When  I 
was  a  mere  clerk  in  the  Hughes  Bank  at  Los 
Angeles,  I  sat  up  nights  to  perfect  my  knowl- 


SALT   LAKE  309 

edge  of  the  Latin  Master.  I  prefer  them 
to  the  Greeks,  who  are  perhaps  more  elegant. 
But  the  Romans  are  more  virile  and  they  were 
superior  legislators." 

"Correct,"  said  Peter  Haws. 

"I  am,"  contiued  Doniphan,  "as  devoted  as 
any  one  can  be,  religiously  speaking,  to  the 
principles  of  the  Reformation.  But  I  don't 
hesitate  to  admit  that  to  translate  the  Bible 
into  the  vutlgar  tongue  was  nothing  short  of  a 
catastrophe.  Thus  the  Roman  Catholics  who 
have  continued  reading  the  Book  of  Books  in 
the  Latin  text,  enjoy  undoubted  advantages 


over  us." 


The  Jesuit  lifted  his  hand  in  polite  protest. 

"Why  yes,"  said  Doniphan,  "Facts  are 
facts." 

"Yes,  facts  are  facts,"  said  Mrs.  Haws. 

"You  are  especially  deserving,  dear  Mr. 
Doniphan,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "for  I  pre- 
sume the  difficulties  you  must  have  experi- 
enced in  opening  such  an  important  finan- 
cial establishment  in  Salt  Lake  .  .  ." 

Doniphan  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Sir,  God  alone  knows  what  pains  I  took! 


3io  SALT   LAKE 

You  must  take  two  things  into  account:  the 
privileged  situation,  as  the  only  reliable 
banking-house  in  town,  that  the  Livingston 
and  Kinkead  Bank  enjoyed  in  Salt  Lake  when 
I  arrived.  One  third  of  their  depositors  have 
come  over  to  the  Hughes  Bank  now,  thanks  to 
my  efforts  .  .  ." 

"And  second?"  asked  the  Jesuit. 

"Second,  it  chanced,  thank  the  Lord,  that 
I  came  at  a  moment  when  business  was  better 
that  it  had  ever  been,  owing  to  the  liquidation 
of  American  army  stocks." 

"Oh,  is  the  American  army  leaving  Utah?" 
asked  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"The  majority  of  the  troops  have  left  al- 
ready," said  Doniphan.  "The  expedition 
was  not  exactly  a  military  success." 

"Gideon  struck,"  put  in  Haws,  "and  the 
Midianites  dispersed." 

"Possibly,  Mr.  Haws,"  said  the  clerk,  more 
annoyed  by  this  misuse  of  the  Scriptures  than 
he  cared  to  appear.  "But  the  armament  of 
Gideon's  troops  consisted,  if  I  remember 
right,  in  three  hundred  trumpets  and  as  many 
earthen  pitchers  and  the  Midianites  had  not 


SALT   LAKE  311 

accumulated  any  stocks  that  I  know  of.  Such 
was  not  the  case  with  the  American  army 
camped  in  Cedar  Valley.  The  thing  had 
been  done  on  a  big  scale.  A  lengthy  occupa- 
tion had  been  foreseen.  Result — six  million 
dollars,  cost  price,  worth  of  goods  bought  for 
the  troops,  have  just  been  liquidated  in 
Salt  Lake  City.  I  say  cost  price,  since  the 
prices  paid  by  speculators  netted  the  United 
States  Treasury  not  over  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  Take  this  as  an  example:  a 
sack  of  flour,  best  quality,  weighing  a  hundred 
pounds,  only  sold  for  half  a  dollar." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "People 
with  a  little  cash  money  must  have  had  a  fine 
time  in  Salt  Lake  these  days!" 

"People  made  considerable  fortunes  in  a 
couple  of  hours,"  said  Doniphan.  "But  as 
you  say,  you  had  to  have  cash  money.  You 
had  to  see  ahead.  It's  a  gift.  I  myself 
watched  one  of  the  depositors  of  my  bank,  sell 
a  house  that  had  been  his  wife's  dowry 
at  half  price.  What  do  you  mean?  '  I  said 
to  him.  A  stone  house,  the  only  stone  house 
in  Salt  Lake  City,  I  suppose  .  .  ." 


312  SALT   LAKE 

"The  only  one,"  said  the  priest 

I  said:  'You  are  foolish  to  let  it  go  at  that 
price!'  He  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  The 
sale  was  made.  Eight  thousand  dollars. 
Well,  two  weeks  later,  after  speculating  on 
the  flour  stocks  he  had  bought  up  with  the 
money,  my  man  found  himself  worth  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  dollars. 
I  repeat,  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  thou- 
sand dollars!" 

"One  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars!"  said  Haws  respectfully. 

"One  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars!"  repeated  Rebecca. 

"That  means,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  calmly, 
"that  Mr  Jemini  Gwinett  is  one  of  the  richest 
men  in  Salt  Lake  City  today." 

Doniphan,  astounded,  looked  at  the  Jesuit. 

"I  didn't  mention  any  names!"  he  said. 

"True,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "but  I  knew 
that  there  was  only  one  stone  house  in  Salt 
Lake  City.  So  it  wasn't  very  hard  to  guess." 

Haws  meditated. 

"Jemini  Gwinett,  I  never  heard  the  name." 

"Nevertheless,  my  dear  Mr.  Haws,  it's  the 


SALT   LAKE  313 

name  of  one  of  your  most  prominent  core- 
ligionaries,"  said  Doniphan. 

"Ah!"  said  Pere  d'Exiles  carelessly,  "JHas 
Reverend  Gwinett  embraced  Mormonism?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "let  me  tell  you  that 
Mr.  Gwinett,  who  was  a  depositor  of  the  Kin- 
kead  Bank  when  I  arrived  in  Salt  Lake,  be- 
came a  despositor  in  the  Hughes  Bank  after 
a  visit  from  me.  Three  weeks  ago,  however, 
he  entrusted  his  interests  to  the  Kinkead 
Bank  once  more." 

"I  appreciate  these  details,  sir,"  said  the 
Jesuit,  "although  at  first  hand,  I  can't  see 
just  what  they  have  to  do  with  .  .  ." 

"With  your  query.  Doubtless,  sir.  I 
simply  wanted  to  show  you  the  absolute  re- 
liability of  the  Hughes  employees.  Mr. 
Gwinett,  ceasing  to  be  our  depositor,  we  are 
no  longer  bound  to  keep  .  .  ." 

"Professional  secrets,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Thank  you.  So  he  has  embraced  Mor- 
monism?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Has  he  many  wives?" 

"Three,  the  last  I  heard." 


3H  SALTLAKE 

"Perfect  harmony,  I  suppose?" 

"As  far  as  two  are  concerned,  yes.  But  one 
of  them,  h-m-m-m!" 

"Well?" 

"There  has  been  quite  a  lot  of  talk." 

"Ah!  ah!" 

"You  will  take  me  for  a  great  gossip." 

"Not  at  all.  Let  me  tell  you  that  I  had 
occasion  to  meet  Mr  Gwinett,  so  that  you 
won't  find  me  too  inquisitive  myself.  I  sat 
at  the  same  table  with  him  in  Salt  Lake 
City." 

"In  the  beautiful  stone  house,  I  suppose?" 
said  Doniphan  with  a  knowing  smile. 

"You  have  guessed  correctly." 

"Oh,  then,  you  knew  Mrs.  Gwinett  Number 
Two!  Anna  is  her  first  name.  Well,  sir, 
the  scandal  was  about  her." 

"I  am  amazed,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Mrs. 
Gwinett,  Mrs.  Lee,  as  she  was  called  when  I 
knew  her,  was  a  person  of  a  most  peaceable 
disposition.  And  I  am  surprised  .  .  ." 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth,"  said  Doniphan. 
"Hardly  a  month  ago,  she  attempted  to  run 
away  with  an  American  lieutenant,  ot  whom 
it  seems  .  .  .  how  should  I  put  it, — pardon 


SALT   LAKE  315 

me,  Mrs.  Haws — she  had  been  the  mistress." 

"How  shocking  1"  exclaimed  Rebecca. 

"I  am  surprised,  surprised  indeed,"  was 
Pere  d'Exiles  only  comment. 

"It's  a  fact,"  said  Doniphan. 

"And  did  her  attempt  fail?"  asked  the 
Jesuit. 

"Lectured  by  Governor  Gumming,  the 
lieutenant  relinquished  his  disgraceful  scheme 
of  running  off  with  a  married  woman." 

"After  all  some  women  don't  amount  to 
much!"  remarked  Mrs.  Haws. 

"Perhaps  she  has  suffered  a  great  deal," 
said  the  Jesuit.  "But  let  us  change  the  sub- 
ject. You  were  saying  something  about  the 
Life  of  Agricola  a  while  ago,  Mr.  Doniphan. 
Are  you  acquainted  with  that  enticing  hy- 
pothesis which  would  have  the  first  settlers  of 
Maine  descend  from  that  Queen  Boadicea 
who  .  .  ." 

Six  days  later,  shortly  before  dark,  Pere 
d'Exiles  entered  Salt  Lake  City.  After  stop- 
ping just  long  enough  to  entrust  Mina  to  a 
small  store-keeper  of  his  acquaintance,  he 


3i6  SALT   LAKE 

presented  himself  at  the  President's  mansion. 

After  some  discussion,  he  was  received  by 
Young's  general  secretary  and  confidential 
man,  Herbert  Kimball. 

"See   President  Brigham!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Impossible!  He  is  at  the  Assembly  of  the 
Elders." 

"Until  when?" 

"Until  seven  o'clock,  at  least.  And  there 
are  people  waiting  for  an  audience  with  him." 

"I  am  not  worried  about  them,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles.  "He  will  see  me  before  any  one 
else.  But  seven  o'clock  is  too  late  for  me." 

"Well,  you  don't  think  I  am  going  to  get 
the  President,  do  you?"  asked  Kimball  in- 
solently. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  expect  you  to  do," 
answered  the  Jesuit. 

"What!  You  want  .  .  ."  spluttered  Kim- 
ball dumfounded.  "And  do  you  suppose  for 
a  minute  that  he  will  leave  the  Assembly  of 
the  Elders,  the  Assembly  constituted  accord- 
ing to  the  rite  of  Esdras  by  the  twenty-sixth 
revelation!  .  .  ." 

"He  will,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 


SALT   LAKE  317 

"I'd  like  to  see  it,"  said  Kimball. 

"You  will,  all  right.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  whisper  in  his  ear  that  there  is  some  one  in 
his  private  office  with  bad  news  from  the 
Crossby  Bank  of  New  York.  He'll  come." 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  add,  Brother  Kimball,  that  know- 
ing as  I  do  that  President  Brigham  is  not  in 
a  good  humour  every  day,  it  is  to  your  own 
interest  not  to  defer  my  message  any  longer." 

So  saying,  Pere  d'Exiles  settled  himself  in 
one  of  the  big 'leather  arm-chairs  in  the  Presi- 
dent's private  office. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Kimball  entered 
the  hall  where  the  Congregation  was  assem- 
bled. The  light  of  forty  clay  lamps,  hung 
near  the  ceiling,  flickered  upon  the  eighty  per- 
sons present. 

The  room  became  silent.  Kimball  mounted 
the  presidential  dais  and  whispered  to  Brig- 
ham,  who  arose  with  dignity.  His  enormous 
shaven  face  was  unmoved. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Brethren.  Brother 
Herbert  informs  me  that  the  Almighty  re- 


3i8  SALT   LAKE 

quires  my  presence  elsewhere.  Brother  Or- 
son Pratt  will  please  preside  over  the  ceremo- 
nies until  I  return." 

Once  outside,  he  interrogated  Kimball  with 
the  same  composure. 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  else?" 

"Nothing  else." 

"Good!"  said  Brigham. 

And  the  obese  giant  accelerated  his  pace 
with  an  alacrity  of  which  he  hardly  seemed 
capable. 

He  found  Pere  d'Exiles  examining  a  sepia 
sketch  of  Salt  Lake's  future  tabernacle,  which 
hung  on  the  President's  study  wall. 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  few  courteous 
phrases. 

"A  splendid  structure,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"The  architect,"  said  Brigham,  "is  Brother 
Truman  Angell.  We  expect  that  his  work 
will  soon  leave  the  rest  of  the  world  far  be- 
hind. Thus  the  two  towers  of  the  Amiens 
cathedral  are  201  feet  high,  if  I  remember 
correctly." 

"The  south  tower  is  201  feet  high,  the  north 
198  feet." 


SALT   LAKE  319 

"Ah,  you  see!  The  six  polyhedral  spires 
that  are  to  embellish  our  tabernacle  will  each 
be  226  feet  high!  Besides,  take  a  look  at  this. 
This  block  of  grey  granite  is  a  specimen  of  the 
stone  which  we  will  use  to  build  the  House  of 
the  Lord.  We  quarry  it  in  the  mountains 
near  by  at  great  expense." 

"Nothing  is  too  good  for  the  Lord,"  said 
the  Jesuit. 

"Nothing,"  said  Brigham. 

For  a  few  moments  they  exchanged  sundry 
remarks  on  the  construction  of  religious  edi- 
fices. Pere  d'Exiles  cited  Robert  de  Luzar- 
ches  and  Viollet-le-Duc.  Brigham  stood  his 
ground.  He  was  playing  with  the  tiny  com- 
pass adorning  his  watch-chain.  Altogether, 
he  was  content  to  have  met  with  an  adversary 
worthy  of  him. 

At  last  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  extreme  indif- 
ference : 

"So  there  is  bad  news  from  the  Crossby 
Bank?" 

"I  have  come  out  of  the  desert,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles  continuing  his  examination  of  the 
projected  tabernacle,  "and  so  I  really  couldn't 
tell  you  anything  absolutely  certain  about  the 


320  SALT   LAKE 

bank's  affairs;  however,  I  believe  they  have 
never  been  better." 

"Ahl"  said  Brigham,  manifesting  no  sur- 
prise whatever. 

They  looked  at  each  other  smilingly. 

"Might  I  ask  then,"  said  the  President, 
"what  interest  there  is  in  coming  here  to  dis- 
cuss the  Crossby  Bank  with  me?" 

"It  must  be  your  own,  if  any,"  said  Pere 
d'Exiles,  "judging  by  the  rapidity  with  which 
you  left  the  Assembly  of  the  Elders,  the  As- 
sembly constituted  according  to  the  rite  of 
Esdras  by  the  twenty-sixth  revelation." 

Brigham  braced  himself  in  his  arm-chair. 

"You  want  something  of  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"What?" 

"The  dissolution  of  the  marriage  which 
united  Mrs.  Lee  to  Mr.  Jemini  Gwinett." 

"Impossible,"  said  Brigham. 

"Impossible,  did  you  say?" 

"I  have  no  reason  and  no  power  to  pro- 
nounce such  a  dissolution." 

"Of  course  you  know  to  whom  I  refer,"  said 
the  Jesuit. 

"The  shepherd   knoweth  his   flock,"   said 


SALT   LAKE  321 

Brigham  ironically.  "Mrs.  Gwinett  Number 
Two,  formerly  Mrs.  Lee." 

"Widow  of  Colonel  Lee,"  specified  Pere 
d'Exiles. 

"As  to  Brother  Jemini,  there  you  have  a  re- 
markably intelligent  man,  so  intelligent 
that  .  .  ." 

"That  he  aspires  to  succeeding  you  some 
day,"  finished  the  Jesuit. 

"That's  just  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  said 
Brigham  biting  his  lips  imperceptibly. 

"Now  we  know  just  where  we  stand,"  said 
Pere  Philippe.  "So  I  repeat  my  question — 
will  you  or  will  you  not  pronounce  the  dis- 
solution of  this  marriage?" 

"I  cannot,  and  I  will  not." 

"It  is  irony  to  say  that  you  cannot,  Brother 
Brigham.  You  can  do  anything,  being  infal- 
lible yourself  and  having  revelations  from  on 
High  at  your  disposal." 

"Don't  jest,"  said  Brigham.  "Infallibility 
is  not  to  be  laughed  at.  There  are  problems 
that  can  only  be  solved  by  resorting  to  absolut- 
ism. Sooner  or  later,  I  tell  you,  your  pope 
shall  be  obliged  to  come  to  the  same  conclu- 


sion." 


322  SALT   LAKE 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  sneer  at  infallibility," 
said  the  Jesuit.  "Quite  the  contrary,  for  I 
said  that  you  could  if  you  would,  pronounce 
the  divorce  I  spoke  of,  since  you  may  resort  to 
principle  when  you  see  fit." 

"That's  where  you  make  your  mistake," 
said  the  President.  "To  be  wholly  effective, 
the  principle  must  be  applied  with  modera- 
tion. You  can't  play  it  on  every  occasion, 
because  if  you  do,  it's  certain  .  .  ." 

"What's  certain,  my  dear  President,  is  that 
we  are  wasting  our  time." 

Brigham  protested  amiably. 

"Perhaps  you  are,  my  friend.  I'm  not. 
On  the  contrary,  there  is  nothing  more  profit- 
able for  me  than  an  occasional  chat  with  an 
able  representative  of  another  sect." 

"I  ask  you  for  the  last  time,"  said  the  Jesuit, 
"will  you  or  will  you  not  pronounce  the  dis- 
solution of  this  marriage?" 

"I  have  already  answered — I  cannot  and  I 
will  not." 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?" 

"Momentarily,  yes." 

"Momentarily!     Ah,  what  an   admirable 


SALT   LAKE  323 

reservation!  Come,  my  dear  President,  con- 
fess— for  the  past  hour  you  have  been  dying 
to  have  me  tell  you  a  story,  the  story  of  the 
Crossby  Bank." 

"Admitted,"  said  Brigham. 

He  arose,  went  to  the  door,  opened  it.  The 
corridor  was  empty.  Brigham  returned  to 
the  table,  sat  down. 

"You  may  begin." 

"Don't  you  smoke  here?" 

"Our  religion  forbids  it,"  said  Brigham, 
and  he  continued  with  a  tolerant  smile.  "But 
you  know,  as  the  great  pontiff  Aureilius  Cotta 
used  to  say  in  Rome,  between  intelligent  peo- 
ple, religion  is  one  thing,  and  .  .  ." 

So  saying,  he  opened  a  little  ebony  cabinet 
and  took  out  a  box  of  cigars. 

"Take  your  choice,"  he  said. 

Then  he  helped  himself. 

"I  am  listening." 

They  settled  down  in  their  respective  arm- 
chairs, leaning  their  heads  back,  gazing  at  the 
ceiling,  where  crept  the  smoke  of  their  cigars. 

"There  was  in  New  York,  around  1848,"  be- 


324  SALTLAKE 

gan  Pere  d'Exiles,  "a  bank  that  was  excep- 
tionally well  patronized,  the  William  Crossby 
Bank." 

"Correct." 

"It  was  then  that  the  first  Mormons  who 
had  discovered  gold  in  California,  were  com- 
ing back  to  Salt  Lake  City.  By  a  full-fledged 
revelation,  the  Mormon  Church  forbade  gold- 
digging.  'Gold,'  therein  was  it  made  known 
unto  us  .  .  ." 

"Spare  me  the  text  of  that  revelation,"  said 
Brigham  with  a  show  of  impatience.  "As  its 
promulgator,  I  ought  to  know  it." 

"I  should  think  so.  But  there  is  something 
that  you  perhaps  don't  know." 

"What?" 

"What  I  am  about  to  tell  you.  The  Mor- 
mon pioneers  brought  back  about  eighty  sacks 
of  gold  dust  from  California." 

"Exactly  eighty." 

"Well,  out  of  those  eighty  sacks,  sixty-two 
were  used  to  coin  five  and  ten  dollar  gold- 
pieces  by  order  of  President  Brigham  Young 
— an  operation  which  permitted  the  notes  is- 


SALT   LAKE  325 

sued  by  Kirtland's  Mormon  bank  to  climb 
back  to  par." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  doesn't  something  strike  your  atten- 
tion?" 

"I  don't  quite  see  what." 

"The  simple  difference  between  the  figure 
80  and  the  figure  62,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "How 
much  does  that  make?" 

"Why  .  .  .  1 8." 

"Eighteen,  just  so.  Sixty-two  sacks  were 
used  by  the  Bank  of  Utah,  while  it  had  re- 
ceived eighty.  That  makes  a  leftover,  an  ex- 
cess or  a  difference  of  eighteen  sacks  whose 
fate  it  would  be  interesting  to  know,  above 
all,  when  you  take  into  account  that  the  market 
value  today  would  be  the  sum  of  $800,000." 

"Perhaps  you  have  some  private  informa- 
tion on  the  subject?" 

"I  have." 

"Would  it  be  indiscreet?  .  .  ." 

"Not  at  all.  About  that  time,  Colonel  Lee, 
one  of  Brigham's  friends,  left  Salt  Lake  City, 
where  the  first  walls  were  being  erected.  He 


326          SALT   LAKE 

had  been  given  a  convoy  of  five  wagons. 
Well,  two  of  the  wagons  were  loaded  with 
the  very  eighteen  sacks  we  were  talking 
about." 

"Dear  me,  everything  comes  out  in  the  end," 
said  Brigham. 

"Colonel  Lee,"  continued  the  Jesuit,  "ar- 
rived in  New  York.  The  eighteen  sacks  in 
question  were  deposited  in  the  Crossby  Bank. 
Stop  me  if  I  am  making  mistakes." 

"Go  on,"  said  Brigham. 

"In  exchange,  they  gave  him  a  receipt  for 
fifteen  sacks!" 

"Fifteen  instead  of  eighteen?" 

"The  difference  of  three  sacks  was  his  com- 
mission. The  receipt  for  the  fifteen  sacks  was 
made  out  in  the  name  of  a  certain  .  .  ." 

"Nathaniel  Sharpe,"  said  the  President 
with  a  smile. 

"And  do  you  know  who  was  this  Nathaniel 
Sharpe?" 

"Myself,"  said  Brigham  with  great  simplic- 
ity. 

He  took  a  huge  portfolio  from  the  pocket 


SALT   LAKE  32? 

of  his  frockcoat,  opened  it,  drew  out  a  paper 
folded  twice. 

"And  here  is  the  receipt  in  question." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  story?"  asked 
the  Jesuit. 

"I  think,"  said  the  President,  "that  Colonel 
Lee  was  a  less  reliable  friend  than  I  thought. 
It  seems  to  me  that  he  gave  me  his  word  .  .  ." 

"•He  kept  it,  Brother  Brigham.  I  happen 
to  be  acquainted  with  these  details  because  I 
was  the  Colonel's  confessor." 

"You  are  bound  to  secrecy,"  said  Brigham. 

"I  am.  Theologically,  however,  one  thing 
might  release  me — that  you  shou/ld  not  keep 
the  promise  you  made  Colonel  Lee,  a  promise 
to  watch  over  his  wife." 

"Just  so,"  agreed  Brigham. 

"The  situation  is  now  quite  clear,  it  seems 
to  me,"  said  the  priest. 

"How  does  it  strike  you?" 

"Like  this.  When  after  the  great  exodus 
from  Nauvoo,  Brigham  Young  arrived  with 
his  followers  upon  the  site  of  the  town  which 


328  SALT   LAKE 

was  destined  to  be  built  under  the  name  of 
Salt  Lake  City,  he  had  little  confidence  in  the 
future  of  the  Mormons.  He  took  advantage 
of  the  first  gold  from  California,  to  assure, 
come  what  may,  his  own  material  welfare. 
What  would  his  people  say  today,  if  they 
learned  that  he,  the  Prophet  of  God,  had 
doubted  the  Holy  Cause?  What  would  they 
say,  these  faithful  people,  if  they  knew  that 
the  Head  of  the  Church  had  kept  part  of  the 
gold  whose  use  he  forbade  publicly?  What 
kind  of  an  effect  do  you  think  such  a  disclo- 
sure would  produce?" 

"A  very  bad  one,"  said  Brigham. 

•He  beamed. 

"You  would  have  to  furnish  the  proof  of 
your  statement.  Well,  I  have  the  receipt." 

"Yes,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  "but  there  exists 
a  duplicate." 

"A  duplicate!"  said  the  President,  whose 
heavy  eyelids  fluttered  slightly. 

"A  duplicate,  or  about  the  same  thing,"  said 
the  Jesuit  with  aplomb,  "a  copy,  signed  by 
Colonel  Lee  as  depositor,  and  by  the  agent 
who  received  the  deposit." 


SALT   LAKE  329 

And,  as  Brigham  gazed  at  him  covertly: 

"Oh,  rest  assured  that  the  copy  would  not 
be  on  my  person  when  I  came  to  visit  you  I" 
concluded  Pere  d'Exiles. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Another  cigar?"  said  Brigham. 

"With  pleasure." 

"The  conclusion,"  said  the  President  with 
a  pained  expression,  "is  that  Colonel  Lee  dis- 
trusted me.  It  wasn't  quite  the  thing.  I 
never  would  have  thought  it  of  him." 

"The  scanty  protection  you  afforded  his 
widow  recently  proves  at  any  rate  that  his 
distrust  was  not  unfounded,"  returned  the 
priest. 

The  President  was  playing  with  his  watch- 
charm. 

"Well  .  .  .  what  about  this  .  .  .  dupli- 
cate?" 

"It  is  in  the  hands  of  trustworthy  friends  at 
present." 

"Trustworthy  friends  are  a  token  of  the 
Almighty,"  stated  Brigham. 

"They  have  the  duplicate  of  this  receipt  in 
their  possession,"  pursued  Pere  d'Exiles. 


330  SALT   LAKE 

"And  in  addition,  they  are  commissioned  to 
publish  it  in  the  most  influential  newspapers 
of  the  United  States  if — today  is  January 
fifteenth — if  I  am  not  in  St.  Louis  on  the  first 
of  March  to  stop  them." 

"Suppose,"  said  Brigham  Young,  reflect- 
ing, "that  for  some  reason  or  other  I  could  not 
prevent  its  publication,  in  your  opinion,  what 
do  you  think  the  result  would  be?" 

"You  said  it  a  while  ago — a  very  bad  one." 

"To  specify?" 

"Your  followers  would  be  highly  edified." 

"Perhaps,  but  not  necessarily.  It  wouldn't 
be  the  first  time  I  have  been  calumniated.  I 
would  contest  the  authenticity  of  the  docu- 
ment. I  would  transform  the  affair  into  a 
religious  quarrel.  If  need  be,  I  would  use  a 
revelation.  Let  me  remind  you  in  my  turn 
that  I  am  infallible." 

"As  far  as  the  Mormons  are  concerned, 
perhaps,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "But  as  far  as  the 
rest  of  the  country  is  concerned,  no !  It  would 
make  a  fine  scandal,  I  assure  you.  And  I 
know  that  you  have  no  desire  to  cause  one  in 
any  way  whatsoever." 


SALT   LAKE  331 

"Quite  so,"  said  Brigham,  meditatively. 
"Then  .  .  ." 

"Then  take  steps  immediately  for  me  to 
be  in  St.  Louis  on  March  the  first." 

"I  will  help  you  to  the  best  of  my  ability 
so  that  the  first  of  March  will  find  you  safe  in 
that  charming  town." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  But  you  know  that  it 
must  be  in  the  company  of  Mrs.  Lee." 

"Mrs.  Gwinett." 

"Mrs.  Lee,  if  you  please." 

"I  repeat,  Mrs.  Gwinett,"  said  Brigham 
dryly.  "Oh!  you  know  me  well  enough  to 
realize  that  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  stubborn 
about  a  name.  I  regret  that  you  do  not  seem 
to  understand  immediately  what  I  mean  by 
'Mrs.  Gwinett.'" 

Pere  d'Exiles  looked  at  the  President,  who 
smiled. 

"Let  it  not  be  forgotten,"  he  said  in  an 
indefinable  tone,  "that  as  High  Priest  and 
Supreme  Head  of  my  flock,  the  custody  of 
the  ilaws  devolves  upon  me.  Thus  I  could 
not  dissolve  a  lawful  union.  But  Mrs.  Gwin- 
ett might  escape,  leave  her  husband's  bed  and 
board,  without  my  knowledge  and,  in  that 


332  SALT   LAKE 

case,  very  likely  you  would  both  take  the  same 
road." 

"And  your  Danites  will  not  pursue  us?" 
asked  Pere  d'Exiles  distrustfully. 

"My  poor  Angels  of  Destruction!"  guf- 
fawed Brigham.  "Their  exploits  have  been 
highly  exaggerated.  A  man  of  your  intelli- 
gence, to  be  taken  in  by  such  a  clumsy  hum- 
bug! I  am  astonished,  my  dear  friend. 
Such  mean  suspicions  when  you  succeeded  so 
well  in  interesting  me  in  the  happy  outcome 
of  your  journey!" 

"It's  my  turn  to  say  'quite  so,'  "  said  the 
Jesuit  laughingly. 

Brigham  rang.     Kimball  appeared. 

"Brother  Herbert,"  commanded  the  Presi- 
dent briefly.  "Go  to  Brother  Jemini  Gwin- 
ett's  right  away.  He  is  at  the  Tabernacle,  so 
you  won't  run  into  him,  but,  understand,  you 
have  to  arrange  things  so  that  you  find  Mrs. 
Gwinett  Number  Two  and  bring  her  back 
here,  without  being  seen  by  a  soul,  do  you 
hear?  Go  and  make  haste." 

Kimball  bowed. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett  Number  Two,  Anna,  is  it 
clear?"  repeated  Brigham.  I  am  waiting." 


SALT   LAKE          333 

The  messenger  went  out. 

"You  have  to  be  precise,"  said  the  President 
coming  back  and  sitting  across  from  Pere  d' 
Exiles.  "What  in  the  world  would  we  say 
if  that  good  old  fellow  brought  us  back  Sarah 
or  that  simpleton  of  a  Bessie,  instead  of  Sister 
Anna?'1 

"It's  true,"  said  the  Jesuit.  "Brother  Jem- 
ini  has  three  wives  already." 

"Three,"  said  Brigham.  "Three.  And 
they're  not  beyond  his  resources." 

And  they  continued  to  chat  like  the  best 
friends  in  the  world. 

Annabel  stood  between  the  two  men.  She 
looked  at  Brigham  Young  fearfully. 

"Mrs.  Gwinett,"  he  said,  "pray  sit  down." 

And  he  gallantly  offered  her  his  arm-chair. 

"Good  God!"  muttered  Pere  d'Exiles. 

He  had  seen  the  young  woman  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  light.  Mechanically  he  drew 
back  into  the  shadow,  so  that  she  would  not 
see  that  his  eyes  had  filled  with  tears. 

Annabel  was  dressed  in  a  tattered  old  dress. 
She  had  folded  her  arms  on  her  bosom.  Her 
red  fingers,  the  nails  ruined,  emerged  from 


334  SALT   LAKE 

shapeless  wristlets.  And  what  an  expression, 
like  a  trapped  animal!  What  a  change  in  a 
few  months,  good  God  I 

President  Brigham  Young  had  called  back 
Herbert  Kimball  and  was  giving  him  orders. 

Next  he  asked  Pere  d'Exiles: 

"Do  you  know  the  halt  of  the  Crowned 
Mormon?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"It's  six  miles  from  here.  By  leaving  at 
midnight,  you  will  get  there  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  cabin  is  fairly 
weather-tight.  You  will  spend  the  night 
there.  At  eight  o'clock,  on  the  hour,  a  coach 
will  come  along,  driven  by  my  personal  cour- 
ier, Brother  Woodrow  Banting.  He  who 
will  have  my  instructions.  In  the  mean- 
while, please  step  into  the  next  room.  Bro- 
ther Kimbald  will  see  that  you  are  served  a 
little  lunch." 

He  added  with  a  smile: 

"At  the  expense  of  the  Crossby  Bank!" 

He  had  taken  his  coat,  his  big  hat. 

"Are  you  leaving  us?"  asked  Pere  d'Exilei. 

"I  must,"  responded  Brigham,  still  smiling. 
"I  have  just  had  a  Divine  Revelation  enjoin- 


SALT   LAKE  335 

ing  the  Assembly  of  Ejlders  and  Apostles  to 
chant  the  Book  of  Psalms  tonight  ...  in  it« 
entirety.  It  is  enough  to  keep  us  until  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  But  the  Lord  who 
sustained  the  arms  of  Moses  during  the  com- 
bat will  likewise  sustain  our  voices." 

'He  added  with  an  ironical  gleam  in  his 
little  elephant's  eyes: 

"And  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  you 
will  be  far  from  here." 

He  conducted  them  to  the  door,  kissed 
Annabel's  hand  in  the  most  approved  style 
and  shook  that  of  the  Jesuit. 

At  midnight,  as  agreed,  Pere  d'Exiles  and 
the  young  woman,  who  was  mounted  on  Mina, 
left  Salt  Lake  City,  while  at  the  Tabernacle, 
under  the  leadership  of  Brigham  Young  beat- 
ing time  impassibly,  the  hoarse  voices  of  the 
Elders  and  Apostles  intoned  the  first  stanza 
of  the  eightieth  psalm: 

"Give  ear,  O  Shepherd!  of  Israel,  thou  that 
leadest  Joseph  like  a  flock;  thou  that  dwell- 
est  between  the  cherubims,  shine  forth." 


CHAPTER  X 

A  LOG  cabin  stood  on  a  narrow  pla- 
teau, dominating  the  surrounding 
country.     It  was  destined  to  shelter 
travellers  caught  in  mountain  storms.     It  was 
the  place  called  the  Crowned  Mormon. 

Six  miles  from  the  Holy  Wall,  the  cabin 
indicated  the  first  halting-place  of  the  stage 
connecting  Salt  Lake  and  Omaha,  by  way  of 
the  pass  of  Echo  Canyon. 

The  Jesuit  and  his  companion  reached  it, 
as  had  been  foreseen,  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

"You  must  try  to  sleep,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 
"I  can  hardly  stand  up  myself.  If  I  succeed 
in  settling  you  half  decently  in  this  shack,  I 
confess  I  will  also  sleep." 

He  struck  a  light.  In  the  corner  of  the 
cabin  he  discovered  a  heap  of  dry  leaves. 
Over  them  he  spread  one  of  the  two  blankets 
he  had  taken  along. 

"Lie  down." 

336 


SALT   LAKE  337 

Annabel  obeyed.  He  tucked  her  under  the 
second  blanket  like  a  child. 

"Come  here,  Mina." 

The  mule  entered  the  cabin.  She  knelt. 
He  lay  down  by  her,  using  the  heavy,  warm 
body  as  a  rampart  against  the  icy  wind  from 
outside. 

"Are  you  comfortable?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Annabel. 

"Do  you  want  anything?" 

"No." 

Nothing  more  was  heard,  except  the  blast 
whistling  through  the  dark  canyons  and  in- 
side, the  mule's  regular  breathing. 

The  Jesuit  listened  in  vain.  No  sound  told 
him  whether  or  not  Annabel  was  sleeping. 

But  he  needed  to  know.  He  put  out  his 
hand,  shivering  at  his  dreadful  audacity. 
Ere  long  he  found  the  young  woman's;  he 
pressed  it  gently.  But  the  hand  remained 
cold  and  inert. 

Nevertheless  it  seemed  to  Pere  d'Exiiles 
that  Annabel  was  not  asleep. 

Still  more  gently  he  moved  back  to  his 
place  beside  the  good-natured  mule.  His 
thoughts  were  manifold.  'How  astonished  he 


338  SALT   LAKE 

would  have  been  the  day  before,  when  he  was 
proceeding  to  Sailt  Lake  by  forced  marches, 
had  some  one  todd  him  that  today  he  would  be 
with  Annabel  on  the  road  to  deliverance,  hav- 
ing won  his  formidable  match  with  Brigham 
Young — and  that  this  would  occasion  him 
only  moderate  rejoicing,  even,  let  us  not  mince 
words — no  rejoicing  at  all  I  Suddenly,  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  there  was  something 
he  had  not  taken  into  account  in  his  plans, 
although  meticulously  premeditated, — some- 
thing he  was  unable  to  formulate,  but  some- 
thing he  realized  had  caught  him  off  his 
guard. 

A  while  ago  he  had  said  that  he  needed 
sleep  imperiously.  Ah!  how  far  sleep  was 
from  him  now!  With  a  desperate  insistence 
he  sought,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  account  for  his 
companion's  dreadful  silence  during  their 
flight  from  Salt  Lake.  He  was  too  modest 
and  too  kind  to  admit  the  only  logical  motive 
— that  Annabel  must  be  overwhelmed  with 
shame  in  the  presence  of  the  man  whom  she 
had  sacrificed  to  an  opprobrious  caprice  with 
such  criminal  thoughtlessness. 


SALT   LAKE  339 

"Sh-h-h!Mina,  sh-h-h!" 

The  mule  stirred,  uttering  muffled  groans. 
The  Jesuit  patted  her.  She  was  silent 

Quiet  restored,  he  became  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts  once  more,  and  he  sighed  thinking 
that  he  had  hit  upon  the  explanation  at  last. 
To  be  delivered  from  the  infamous  yoke  of  a 
Gwinett  was  not  enough — she  must  live  now. 
No  doubt  that  is  what  Annabel  was  thinking 
about.  She  had  left  St.  Louis  rich  and  happy. 
Would  it  only  be  to  return  one  day  penniless 
and  declassee? 

Such  a  perspective  was  indeed  of  a  nature 
to  justify  the  utter  dejection  that  had  so  cruelly 
surprised  Pere  d'Exi-les.  He  was  angry  with 
himself  for  not  having  found  the  natural  ex- 
planation immediately.  He  taxed  himself 
with  heedlessness,  with  egoism.  Yes,  why 
deny  it,  he  had  been  angry  with  Annabel  be- 
cause she  had  not  evinced  her  gratitude  at 
once.  As  if,  after  all,  he  had  done  anything, 
except  change  the  nature  of  the  unhappy 
woman's  sorrow  in  wresting  her  from  her 
direful  spouse! 

And    suddenly    the    inexorable    question 


340  SALT   LAKE 

flashed  upon  him,  the  question  which  he  had 
not  considered  once  since  his  departure  from 
Haw's  Ranch — what  would  he  do  with  Anna- 
bel Lee,  destitute,  when  they  arrived  in  St. 
Louis? 

Childish  cares,  divine  perplexity,  revealing 
the  fundamental  quality  of  this  soul!  And 
you!  (Hasn't  it  happened  that  in  the  relative 
calm  on  a  still,  moonless  night  at  the  front, 
you  forgot  your  sole  concern,  the  enemy,  and 
recalled  the  thousand  and  one  little  worries 
of  your  civilian  life? 

"The  barn-roof  needs  reshingling  and  I 
haven't  a  cent,"  thought  the  farmer. 

"When  time  comes  for  promotion,  will 
they  be  fair  and  take  into  account  these  long 
hours  of  suffering?"  thought  the  office-holder. 

Then  they  would  both  smile,  if  they  re- 
flected that  they  had  only  to  lift  their  heads 
over  the  parapet  to  see  the  chalky  line  of  the 
opposing  trench.  Ah!  banish  these  trivial- 
ities, when  the  all-important  problem  is  not 
solved  yet!  You  have  one  advantage  over 
Pere  d'Exiles,  that  of  knowing  the  enemy's 


SALT   LAKE  341 

whereabouts.  Pere  d'Exiles  is  unaware. 
He  has  merely  a  presentiment  that  there  are 
hostile  forces  lurking  in  the  surrounding 
obscurity. 

Mina  stirs  anew.  She  groans.  Ah!  two 
tiny  green  balls  glisten  at  the  aperture  that 
serves  as  a  door !  Then  two  others,  green  too 
— then  two  others,  two  by  two  likewise,  equi- 
distant. A  soft  rustle.  Wretched  coyotes! 
Would  that  you  were  the  cause  of  these  mortal 
anxieties!  But  you  are  only  poor  starved 
wolves.  Here!  Catch  this  crust  of  dry 
bread,  if  you  want  it,  and  disappear,  melan- 
choly flames,  for  I  fear  that  Mina  disapproves 
of  my  treatment  of  you ! 

Yes,  it  must  be  that — the  fear  of  the  future, 
the  burden  of  an  odious  past  weighing  upon 
her  unceasingly  and  spoiling  the  happy  mo- 
ments, should  there  be  any.  Next,  alas,  the 
horrible  material  cares!  Annabel  is  ruined, 
her  own  fault,  no  doubt,  but  it  would  scarcely 
be  decent  to  reproach  her  now.  Well,  then, 
what?  Oh!  the  Ursulines  of  St.  Louis  will 
shelter  her  at  first,  and  how  gladly!  But  I 


342  SALT   LAKE 

know  only  too  well  that  when  they  lend 
assistance  to  some  one  in  her  position,  some 
one  who  can  never  pay  back,  it's  always  with 
the  idea  that  some  day  .  .  .  And,  to  tell  the 
truth,  Annabel  had  no  religious  vocation. 
Might  it  have  come  to  her,  after  so  many 
trials?  I  hardly  think  so.  And  Pere  d' 
Exiles  shuddered  as  he  realized  that  the 
thought  of  Annabel's  forehead  beneath  the 
starched  wimple  was  unbearable. 

It  is  colder.  Can  it  be  dawn  already? 
Then  it  will  be  light  before  I  have  had  a  min- 
ute's sleep.  What  is  that  noise  now?  It  is  not 
Mina,  nor  the  cry  of  the  wind,  nor  the  coyotes. 
Steps  on  the  road,  my  God!  Yes,  I  was 
right,  steps  on  the  road.  There  are  horses 
with  the  men.  Fortunately  they  are  coming 
from  the  direction  opposite  Salt  Lake.  At 
least  let  us  hope  that  they  won't  take  it  into 
their  heads  to  stop  here!  They  would  not 
fail  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me  over  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mule  in  a  place  meant  for  trav- 
ellers. Americans  have  a  great  respect  for 
human  dignity.  But  for  my  part,  I  believe 
it's  to  one's  interest  to  avoid  discussion,  above 


SALT   LAKE  343 

all  when  one  is  with  a  woman — easily  ex- 
cited .  .  .  They  approach  .  .  .  They  are 
here  .  .  .  They  have  gone  by ! 

What  a  relief!  Now  I  will  be  able  to 
sleep,  perhaps.  Stop  fidgeting,  nice  Mina. 
Now  I  myself  am  tossing  about.  Will  I  end 
by  capturing  thee  at  last,  elusive  sleep? — Lis- 
ten! What?  More  steps.  The  same  steps 
as  before,  but  more  numerous,  I  believe,  and 
coming  from  town.  Here  they  are!  And 
this  time  they  are  stopping!  They  are  go- 
ing to  come  in  the  cabin — they  are  com- 
ing in! 

God!  what  a  ghastly  bluish  light!  The 
cabin  is  full  of  smoke.  Oh!  I  understand, 
they  have  set  fire  to  the  leaves,  the  dry  leaves 
on  which  she  sleeps,  she,  Annabel.  Wretches, 
who  are  you?  Ah!  I  recognize  you  well, 
sinister  Angels  of  Destruction,  accursed  Dan- 
ites !  It  was  in  vain  that  I  thought  I  had  van- 
quished your  instigator.  You  are  after  your 
prey,  aren't  you?  And  what  about  me,  then, 
me?  Do  you  think  I  will  be  content  to  stay 
alone  when  you  have  despoiled  me  of  this 


344  SALT    LAKE 

unique  creature?  And  me,  and  me? — Ah! 
too  late — she  is  here  no  longer! 

•Haggard,  Pere  d'Exiles  had  leaped  to  his 
feet  in  the  cabin  flooded  with  blue,  foggy 
morning  air.  He  was  alone  with  Mina  who 
peacefully  nibbled  at  the  dry  leaves  that  had 
served  Annabel  as  a  couch. 

In  a  bound,  the  Jesuit  was  outside.  The 
icy  wind  of  day-break  swept  the  phamtoms 
from  his  brain.  A  great  sigh  of  relief  swelled 
his  chest.  The  young  woman  was  there. 

About  thirty  paces  away,  Annabel  sat  on  the 
ledge.  She  was  gazing  into  space.  The  sun 
had  just  risen,  climbing  the  summit  of  the 
Wahsatch  Mountains.  Light  unfurled  in  the 
valley.  A  beautiful  day  was  dawning. 

Pere  d'Exiles  approached  Annabel  softly. 
She  did  not  turn  around.  As  he  drew  near, 
he  examined  her  at  leisure.  For  the  first 
time  he  saw  her  again  in  the  implacable  light 
of  day.  He  began  to  tremble.  He  beheld 
her  hair  that  had  been  so  beautiful  in  its 
blond  opulence,  dusty  now,  thinned  out  to  a 
few  strands  tightly  drawn  back  to  the  nape  of 
her  neck,  where  they  were  twisted  in  a  pitiful 
knot. 


SALT   LAKE  345 

Annabel  had  not  yet  turned  around.  She 
gazed  fixedly  down  yonder,  in  the  bottom  of 
the  valley.  The  Jesuit  blessed  her  obstinacy, 
for  it  gave  him  time  to  affect  a  disinterested 
air.  At  first  sight  he  would  have  certainly 
been  incapable  of  repressing  an  exclamation 
that  might  have  wounded  the  unfortunate 
woman. 

"A  beautiful  day!"  he  said  at  last. 

She  turned  her  head,  evincing  no  surprise 
at  seeing  him  there,  although  she  had  not 
heard  him  come.  High  in  the  air,  two  vul- 
tures soared  in  the  clear  sky — their  gigantic 
shadows  hovering  over  the  rosy  mountain-side. 

"If  this  weather  keeps  up,  our  journey  to 
St.  Louis  will  be  a  real  pleasure  trip  .  ,  ." 

yHe  stopped  short  with  a  sinking  feeling  of 
having  uttered  those  words  somewhere  else. 
Good  God,  where?  Ah,  yes!  In  the  beauti- 
ful stone  villa,  the  morning  the  American 
troops  had  entered  Salt  Lake  City,  the  day 
before  the  departure  that  had  never  taken 
place. 

Still  Annabel  had  not  answered. 

"What  are  you  looking  at  so  hard?"  he 
asked  in  a  somewhat  altered  voice. 


346  SALT   LAKE 

Without  a  word  she  indicated  the  plain. 

She  pointed  to  where  Salt  Lake  City  lay, 
bathed  in  the  morning  light.  On  the  horizon 
sparkled  the  Lake,  bristling  with  fusees  of 
yellow  vapor. 

"It's  a  two  hours'  march,"  said  the  Jesuit 
in  an  unsteady  voice.  "I  never  would  have 
thought  that  one  could  see  the  whole  town 
from  here.  Look,  over  there,  that's  where 
your  villa  is!" 

Annabel's  glance  did  not  follow  the  direc- 
tion in  which  his  outstretched  hand  attempted 
to  draw  it 

There  was  a  silence. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  he  asked  at 
last 

In  turn  she  pointed  to  the  southern  portion 
of  Salt  Lake  City. 

"At  that,"  she  said  simply. 

"What?" 

"The  smoke." 

"The  smoke?" 

"Yes  the  smoke  from  the  houses." 

It  was  true,  the  air  was  so  mysteriously 
pure  that  one  could  see  a  greyish  streak  of 
smoke,  mounting  from  each  square,  brown 
roof. 


SALT   LAKE  347 

"Well?"  asked  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"It's  the  smoke  from  the  fires  that  we  light 
in  the  morning,  a  little  before  seven,  to  pre- 
pare breakfast." 

"Breakfast!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  She  still 
spoke  in  the  same  gentle  voice.  Her  face  was 
impassible. 

"Yes,  breakfast.  It  was  my  turn  today.  I 
will  not  have  been  there  to  light  the  morning 
fire." 

The  Jesuit's  trembling  voice  rose. 

"Neither  will  you  be  there  to  light  the 
others." 

"Yes,  I  will,"  she  said. 

"What  are  you  saying?" 

"I  say  that  I  will  be  there,  since  we  are 
only  a  two  hours'  walk  from  town,  and  the  fire 
for  the  noon  meal  does  not  have  to  be  lit  un- 
til eleven  o'clock.  So  you  see  I  will  be  there." 

She  had  arisen.     He  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  cried  in  frightful 
sorrow. 

She  had  paled. 

"Mad,  mad!  Oh,  how  unkind  of  you,  you 
who  are  so  good,  to  use  that  word!" 


348  SALT   LAKE 

She  repeated  in  a  sorrowful  plaint: 

"How  unkind,  how  unkind!" 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "it  must 
be  that  I  am  going  mad  myself!  Oh,  tell  me 
it  isn't  true,  tell  me  that  it's  only  a  jest  that  I 
don't  understand!  You — to  go  back  to  that 
man!  .  .  ." 

"^Hush!"  she  murmured. 

"Tell  me  it  isn't  true.  And  then,  see  how 
unlikely  it  would  be — didn't  you  come  with 
me  last  night?  And  didn't  you  appeal  to 
that  Lieutenant  Rutledge  a  month  ago — didn't 
you  mean  to  follow  him,  to  flee?  .  .  ." 

"He  did  not  come,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"He  did  not  come — but  I  did.  And  here 
I  am,  and  you  don't  want  to  come  with  me 
now  .  .  ." 

"Yesterday,"  she  said,  "I  still  believed  I 
could.  While  you  were  asleep  this  morning, 
I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  see  the  house  once 
again.  Now  I  have  seen  it,  and  I  realize 
that  I  can  go  no  further.  You  shouldn't  have 
gone  to  sleep — you  shouldn't  have  let  me 
see  the  house  again." 

Pere  d'Exiles  wrung  his  hands. 


SALT   LAKE  349 

She  repeated: 

"You  shouldn't  have  let  me  see  the  house 
again!" 

She  looked  at  hei  companion.  She  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  filled  with  heart-breaking 
tears. 

"You  musn't  cry  either,"  she  said. 

And  as  the  Jesuit's  tears  flowed  afresh,  she 
made  a  vague  gesture  in  protest. 

"I  tell  you,  you  mustn't  cry,  because  this 
woman  is  no  longer  the  woman  you  are  weep- 
ing for.  You  musn't,  you  musn't  regret  her 
any  more." 

So  saying,  she  smiled  so  desolately  that 
Pere  d'Exiles  was  thrown  into  a  paroxysm  of 
misery. 

"I  will  take  you  with  me!"  he  cried,  "in 
spite  of  yourself!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  won't  always  be  there  to  watch  me," 
she  said.  "And  then  I  would  go  back,  I 
know  I  would.  Don't  you  see,  it  would  be 
better  not  to  make  me  too  long  a  trip  and  not 
to  expose  me  .  .  ."  and  she  hung  her  head, 
"to  more  severe  reprimands." 


350  SALT   LAKE 

"Good  God!"  he  cried.  "So  you  ad- 
mit .  .  ." 

"It  is  getting  late,"  she  responded  simply. 
"It  is  getting  late  and  I  can't  walk  very  fast. 
You  know  it,  since  you  were  obliged  to  put 
me  on  the  mule  last  night.  I  must  leave  you." 

He  leaned  against  a  pine.  He  did  not  turn 
around.  She  saw  him  sob  convulsively. 
Resplendent,  the  sun  was  climbing  the  azure 
steps  of  the  firmament. 

The  young  woman  started  down  the  steep 
mountain  path. 

She  had  not  gone  a  hundred  steps  before  a 
loud  cry  rent  the  air  and  forced  her  to  stop. 

"Annabel!" 

She  turned.  She  saw  the  Jesuit  on  the 
brink  of  the  precipice,  his  arms  outstretched. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her  by 
that  name,  the  name  she  was  hearing  for  the 
last  time. 

When  Brigham  Young's  personal  courier, 
Brother  Woodrow  Banting,  duly  rehearsed 
by  Brother  Kimball,  drew  his  equipage  up 
in  front  of  the  cabin  of  the  Crowned  Mormon 
at  eight  o'clock  sharp,  he  was  surprised  to 


SALT   LAKE  351 

find  it  deserted.  /He  waited  for  a  little  over 
an  hour,  then,  in  the  end,  he  resigned  himself 
to  turning  the  horses  around  and  going  back 
to  Salt  Lake,  where  he  recounted  his  mis- 
adventure to  Kimball. 

Over  mountain  and  plain  marched  Pere 
d'Exiles  for  two  days,  directing  his  steps  to 
the  South-West.  It  was  night,  black  night 
when  he  entered  Provo  the  Blessed,  where  he 
slept  beneath  the  stars.  He  left  at  dawn. 

As  he  journeyed  along  the  road  connecting 
Nephi  and  Manti,  the  twin  cities,  he  heard 
the  noise  of  a  wagon  behind  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  Manti?"  he  asked. 

"Farther  on,  to  Fillmore." 

"Fine.  What  will  you  charge  to  give  me 
a  lift  as  far  as  Fillmore ?  Anyway  I  shall 
leave  you  before  we  reach  town." 

"Eight  dollars." 

"Agreed." 

Five  minutes  later,  relieved  of  her  scanty 
pack,  Mina  trotted  briskly  behind  the  cart 
where  sat  her  master. 

Next  day,  a  few  hours  after  passing  through 
the  town  of  Manti,  they  came  upon  a  stream. 


352  SALT   LAKE 

"Isn't  this  the  Sevier  River?"  asked  the 
Jesuit. 

His  conductor  replied: 

"Yes,  the  Sevier  River.     Here  is  the  ford." 

The  cart  had  stopped.  Pere  d'Exiles  de- 
scended and  began  to  load  Mina. 

"Are  you  leaving  me?"  asked  the  Mormon. 

"Yes." 

"You're  going  East,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  West — toward  the  lake." 

The  man  shook  his  head  disapprovingly. 

"It  surprises  you?"  asked  the  priest. 

"No,  not  at  all.  You  are  free  to  go  where 
you  please.  All  I  have  to  say  is  that  I 
wouldn't  advise  anybody  to  go  on  an  excursion 
in  the  vicinity  of  Lake  Sevier  just  now." 

"Why?" 

"The  Utes,"  answered  the  man,  "have  never 
been  very  friendly.  But  since  Captain  Gun- 
nison's  murder,  which  you  have  probably 
(heard  of,  the  country  is  altogether  unsafe. 
Just  a  few  days  ago,  a  patrol  of  the  Cedar 
Valley  troops  had  a  skirmish  with  some  In- 
dians who  were  hunting  on  forbidden  terri- 
tory. A  few  men  were  killed  on  both  sides. 
More  redskins  than  pale-faces,  of  course. 


SALT   LAKE  353 

It  goes  to  show  you  that  just  now  there  are 
•healthier  places  than  the  shores  of  Lake 
Sevier." 

"I  am  not  an  American,"  said  the 
Jesuit. 

"You're  a  pale-face — it's  all  the  same  to 
them.  Well,  all  right,  if  yo"  insist.  Good- 
bye." 

Pere  d'Exiles  had  gone  about  thirty  miles 
westward  when  night  began  to  fall.  The  dy- 
ing light  filtered  through  the  willow  branches. 
The  river,  a  mere  brook  when  he  had  begun  to 
follow  it,  now  an  imposing  flood,  rolled  its 
grey  waters  in  silence. 

He  rode  part  of  the  night  and  all  the  next 
day.  (He  seemed  indefatigable.  He  only 
stopped  in  the  prairies,  to  allow  Mina  to 
graze. 

He  would  watch  her.  Once  he  mut- 
ered: 

"The  Indians  have  never  been  cruel  to 
their  animals." 

At  four  o'clock  the  sun  was  setting  again 
and  still  he  had  met  no  one.  Then,  on  the 
river-bank  he  perceived  a  brown  silhouette 


354  SALT   LAKE 

that  an  unpractised  eye  would  have  mis- 
taken for  a  dead  tree  trunk. 

It  was  an  Indian  fishing. 

Pere  d'Exiles  approached  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Sh-h-h!"  hissed  the  fisherman. 

It  was  a  very  old,  old  Indian.  The  skin 
of  his  face,  withered  around  his  cheekbones, 
was  the  color  of  baked  clay.  He  wore  an  old 
water-proof  and  on  his  head  was  an  incon- 
gruous visored  cap. 

"Sh-h-h  The  repeated. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  line,  cast  under  a 
willow-tree. 

He  waited  vainly  and  ended  by  hauling  in 
his  line. 

"The  Fish  was  biting  when  the  Pale-Face 
came,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  with  an  accent  of 
reproach.  "The  Pale-Face  has  frightened 
him." 

"Another  will  bite,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

The  old  Indian  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 
He  spread  his  line  along  the  grassy  bank  and 
baited  the  hook. 

"What  wouldst  thou?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Thou  art  a  Utah?"  asked  the  priest. 


SALT   LAKE  355 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  still  Arapine  who  is  chief  of  the 

Utahs?" 

"Yes." 

"Lead  me  to  him." 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  Indian.  "It  is  Ara- 
pine who  has  commanded  that  I  stay  here  to 
fish  and  watch  over  the  approaches  to  the 
Waters.  But  wait,  thou  shalt  have  thy 
wish." 

He  began  whistling  softly  and  monoto- 
nously. A  water  hen  rose  clumsily  and 
crossed  the  river,  rippling  the  waves  with  her 
dragging  feet. 

The  old  man  cast  his  line  anew. 

Before  long,  there  were  light  foot-falls  on 
the  dead  leaves.  Two  Indians  emerged. 
The  fisherman  talked  to  them,  pointing  to 
Pere  d'Exiles.  They  signed  to  him  to  follow. 
It  was  dark  when  they  arrived  in  the  camp 
pitched  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Red,  im- 
mense, the  moon  was  rising  over  the  lake. 
The  moonbeams  danced  on  the  water,  as  it 
lapped  about  the  reeds  near  the  shore. 

Some  thirty  conical  tents  were  set  up  in  the 


356  SALT   LAKE 

glade.  Shadows  came  and  went  before  the 
fires  that  had  just  been  lighted. 

The  guides  conducted  the  Jesuit  to  the  high- 
est tent.  One  of  them  entered,  then  came  out 
after  a  few  minutes,  motioning  for  him  to  go 
in. 

There  were  two  Indians  in  the  tent.  One, 
little  and  old,  was  huddled  in  a  corner,  almost 
invisible.  The  other,  sitting  by  a  folding- 
table,  was  reading  a  copy  of  the  New  York 
Spectator  by  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp,  and 
making  notes  in  a  memorandum  book.  It 
was  Arapine.  He  lifted  his  hand  signifying 
to  the  Jesuit  that  he  must  wait  until  he  had 
finished  reading.  He  wore  spurred  boots, 
grey  trousers  and  a  long  dark  frock-coat.  His 
shirt  collar,  very  white,  stuck  out  of  his  high 
pedantic  black  cravat.  His  hair,  plaited  in 
bluish  braids,  hid  his  ears.  His  forehead 
was  bound  by  a  narrow  otter  band,  support- 
ing the  head-dress  of  white  feathers,  the  in- 
signia of  supreme  authority. 

He  closed  his  note-book  composedly,  folded 
the  newspaper,  then,  looking  at  the  Jesuit: 

"Who  art  thou  and  what  willst  thou?"  he 
asked. 


SALT   LAKE  357 

"I  am  a  Catholic  priest.  I  wish  to  exercise 
my  calling  among  your  people." 

"Art  thou  an  American?" 

"No,  a  Frenchman,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Arapine  pointing  to  a 
stool. 

He  reflected  a  moment. 

"We  have  never  had  cause  to  congratulate 
ourselves  on  having  sheltered  men  of  thy  col- 
our. Nevertheless,  I  grant  thee  the  permis- 
sion thou  seekest,  on  condition,  naturally,  that 
I  revoke  it  when  I  see  fit." 

The  Jesuit  bowed. 

A  low  grunt  came  from  the  obscurity  at  the 
back  of  the  tent.  The  old  Indian  stirred, 
scarcely  distinguishable  in  the  gloom. 

"What  then  is  the  matter,  Choapee?"  asked 
Arapine. 

The  Indian  approached  the  chief  and  spoke 
into  his  ear.  Arapine  looked  surprised.  His 
eyes  glistened. 

"How  art  thou  called?"  he  asked  the 
Jesuit. 

"Father  Philippe  d'Exiles,"  responded  the 
priest  calmly. 

"Ugh!"  grunted  Arapine  meditatively. 


358  SALT   LAKE 

The  mouth  of  the  shrunken  old  Indian  split 
in  a  satisfied  grin. 

"Choapee,"  said  Arapine,  "bring  that  of 
which  thou  hast  spoken." 

The  Jesuit's  eyes  had  accustomed  them- 
selves to  the  darkness  and  he  was  able  to  make 
out  a  sort  of  rude  cupboard,  poked  in  a  corner 
of  the  tent.  Choapee  went  to  this  piece  of  fur- 
niture, opened  it,  hunted  among  several  bun- 
dles of  documents  and,  taking  out  one,  came 
back  to  the  table. 

Arapine  glanced  through  the  papers  care- 
fully. 

"Father  Philippe  d'Exiles,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Thou  art  he  who  was  condemned  to  death 
the  twenty-fourth  of  January,  1854 — soon  will 
it  be  five  years — by_my  brother  and  prede- 
cessor, Wakara,  presiding  over  this  Council?" 

"It  is  I,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"Wakara  notified  you  for  the  first  time  of 
the  sentence,  as  registered  by  the  Keeper  of 
Records,  Choapee,  here  present,"  continued 
Arapine,  "at  Salt  Lake,  in  1854.  The  second 
time,  I  did,  in  1856.  Then  neither  of  those 
notifications  did  reach  thine  eyes?" 

"I  received  them  both." 

"Ugh?"  muttered  Arapine  once  more. 


SALT   LAKE  359 

And  it  was  plain  that,  impassible  as  he  was, 
he  found  it  difficult  to  conceal  his  amazement. 

"Thou  hast  returned,  nevertheless?"  he 
said. 

"I  have  returned." 

"Perhaps  condemned  by  default,  wouldst 
thou  appeal  the  sentence,  and  demand  a 
second  trial?" 

The  Jesuit  shrugged  indifferently. 

"It  is  thy  right,"  said  Arapine  with  grow- 
ing surprise.  "And  it  is  my  duty  to  call  an 
emergency  Council  which  shall  decide 
whether  or  not  there  are  grounds  for  suspend- 
ing the  judgment  delivered  five  years  gone  by, 
or  revoking  it,  or  applying  it  immediately." 

"I  await  thy  orders,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles. 

And  unconcernedly,  he  began  to  read  the 
copy  of  the  New  York  Spectator  left  on  the 
table. 

Meanwhile,  Arapine  continued  to  look 
through  the  file,  as  Choapee  handed  him  the 
papers  in  rapid  succession. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said  when  he  had  finished. 

He  lit  a  stubby  pipe. 

"The  drum  must  be  beaten,"  he  said  to 
Choapee. 

The  old  Indian  went  out.     A  lugubrious 


360  SALTLAKE 

noise  began.  The  Jesuit  started  slightly. 
Arapine  smiled. 

"I  convoke  the  Council,"  he  explained. 
"Choapee,  give  me  sheet  number  one." 

He  examined  it  under  the  lamp. 

"The  sentence  condemning  thee  was  pro- 
nounced by  a  tribunal  of  four  judges  and  the 
Keeper  of  the  Records  and  Wakara,  my 
brother,  who  was  the  chief,  presided — may 
he  be  in  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  of  the 
Great  Manitou,  He  who  rules  the  Universe! 

"Of  those  six  members,  today,  four  are  no 
more.  There  is  Choapee  left,  and  Masoaki. 
Both  will  act  this  night,  as  they  did  then,  at  the 
tribunal  which  will  decide  thy  fate.  The 
four  others  will  be  the  three  chiefs,  most  ven- 
erable of  my  tribe,  and  myself,  who  will  pre- 
side. Thou  hast  nothing  to  say?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles,  continuing 
his  reading. 

The  tent-flap  lifted,  allowing  four  men  to 
enter  one  by  one,  four  Indians,  dressed  in  the 
cast-off  clothing  of  pade-faces.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  ludicrous  than  this 
attire,  had  it  not  been  redeemed  by  the  silent 


SALT   LAKE  361 

majesty  of  the  Indians.  They  all  wore  the 
otter  band  and  the  head-dress  of  black  and 
white  feathers,  while  that  of  their  chief's  was 
white. 

Grave  and  taciturn  they  squatted  around 
the  table.  Arapine  spoke. 

"On  the  twenty-fourth  of  January,  1854, 
the  Supreme  Council  of  the  Utahs,  my  brother 
Wakara  presiding,  condemned  Father  Phil- 
ippe d'Exiles,  a  French  priest,  to  death  by 
default,  guilty  of  having  denounced  the  Utahs 
to  the  American  Goverment,  after  Captain 
Gunnison's  death,  the  Utahs  who  had 
sheltered  him  and  trusted  him.  All  will 
remember." 

They  nodded  in  assent 

"At  any  rate,  here  are  the  papers.  Choapee 
is  at  the  disposition  of  the  judges  who  would 
see  them." 

One  of  the  judges  arose  and  questioned 
Choapee,  who  read  him  several  of  the  docu- 
ments in  a  low  voice.  He  sat  down  again. 

"Today,"  took  up  Arapine,  "Father 
d'Exiles  is  here,  in  our  hands.  It  must  be 
stated  that  he  seems  to  have  come  of  his  own 
free  will.  The  question  which  presents  it- 


362  SALT   LAKE 

self  is:  should  the  sentence  delivered  long  ago 
be  executed,  adjourned  or  annulled.  I  add 
that  we  are  bound  by  the  circumstances  in 
which  it  was  pronounced.  Further  evidence 
alone  might  warrant  another  sentence.  It 
is  for  you  to  decide  whether  there  have  been 
any  developments  since  the  twenty-fourth  of 
January,  1854.  And,  on  this  head,  I  suppose 
the  condemned  wi-ll  assist  us  with  explanations 
which  it  is  his  right  to  offer." 

So  saying,  he  looked  at  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"I  have  no  explanations  to  offer,"  said  the 
Jesuit  coldly. 

"Then  will  the  Tribunal  proceed  according 
to  its  lights,"  said  Arapine.  He  turned  to  the 
Indians.  "Shall  no  one  raise  his  voice? 
Speak  then,  Masoaki!" 

The  oldest  of  the  judges  arose.  He  must 
have  been  very  ancient,  for  his  hands,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  table,  trembled  violently. 

"I  sat  on  the  tribunal  which  rendered  the 
sentence  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  January, 
1854,  and  I  may  say  that  on  that  occasion,  I 
voted  for  death.  But  today,  things  have 
changed  in  my  mind.  Last  year,  at  the  rise 
of  the-Humboldt,  where  sent  by  thee,  Arapine, 


SALT   LAKE  363 

I  was  negotiating  a  purchase  of  cattle  from 
Sokopitz,  I  witnessed  the  good  this  man,  who 
is  about  to  be  judged,  has  done  there.  Our 
brothers,  the  Shoshonees,  speak  his  name  with 
veneration.  I  consider  this  the  evidence 
spoken  of  by  Arapine,  and  I  will  place  a  white 
stone  in  the  sack." 

Masoaki  squatted  again. 

"Would  another  speak?"  asked  Arapine. 

A  chief  arose.  He  was  the  youngest.  On 
his  cheeks,  were  tattooed  two  vermilion 
crosses. 

"The  Shoshonees,"  he  said,  "are  the 
brothers  of  the  Utes,  but  they  are  not  Utes. 
It  is  not  for  us  to  meddle  in  their  judgments, 
nor  is  it  for  us  to  look  unto  them  that  we  may 
learn  how  to  mete  out  justice.  That  his 
offices  may  have  profited  the  Shoshonees  is 
possible,  but  this  does  not  alter  the  facts.  If 
we  are  to  seek  for  further  developments,  to 
me  it  seems  that  we  must  find  them  in  the  per- 
secutions, daily  augmenting,  that  the  Pale- 
Face  has  inflicted  upon  us.  By  the  denun- 
ciation of  this  man,  received  among  us  in  for- 
mer times  like  a  brother,  were  these  perse- 
cutions brought  about.  I  will  death!" 


364  SALT   LAKE 

"Has  yet  another  words?"  asked  Arapine. 

The  judges  remained  silent. 

"And  thou,"  said  Arapine,  addressing  Pere 
d'Exiles,  "hast  thou  nothing  to  say  in  thy  de- 
fence? I  warn  thee  that  the  hour  has  come!" 

The  Jesuit  shook  his  head. 

"The  cause  has  been  heard,"  said  Arapine. 

"Choapee,  distribute  the  stones." 

The  keeper  of  the  Records  gave  each  of  the 
five  judges  two  stones,  one  white,  one  black. 
They  took  them,  closed  their  fists. 

"The  sack,  now." 

Making  the  rounds,  Choapee  held  out  a 
small  sack  of  buffalo-hide.  In  it,  each  judge 
dropped  a  stone.  Arapine  voted  last  and 
kept  the  sack,  for  it  was  he  who  must  pro- 
nounce the  sentence. 

He  drew  out  two  black  stones  in  succession, 
then  two  white  stones.  The  fifth  stone  was 
black. 

"Death!"  said  Arapine  solemnly. 

"When?"  asked  Pere  d'Exiles. 

"It  is  the  law,"  said  the  chief,  "that  the 
sentence  be  executed  at  dawn,  the  day  after 
it  has  been  given.  It  is  nine  o'clock.  Thou 
hast  nine  hours  then  to  live — until  tomorrow 


SALT   LAKE  365 

morning  at  six  o'clock,  when  the  day  shall  be 
born.  Still,  should  it  be  that  thou  wouldst 
delay  one  day,  with  the  consent  of  the  Coun- 
cil, I  could  .  .  ." 

"I  ask  nothing,"  said  the  priest. 

"It  is  thy  will.  Go,  then,"  he  said  address- 
ing the  judges.  "With  Choapee,  I  will  watch 
over  the  condemned." 

The  four  chiefs  went  out  as  silently  as  they 
had  come  in. 

Seated  on  his  stool  in  the  shadow,  the  Jesuit 
was  praying.  Arapine  had  taken  out  his 
memorandum-book  again  and  was  making 
notes  as  he  read  his  New  York  Spectator. 

A  gentle  snoring  was  heard. 

Arapine  raised  his  head,  smiling. 

"Choapee  sleeps,"  he  said. 

He  arose,  opened  a  chest,  took  out  two  tin 
plates,  two  cups,  a  bottle  of  rum  and  some 
canned  goods.  Rapidly,  he  prepared  a  frugal 
repast. 

"Draw  near,"  he  said  to  the  Jesuit,  "for  thou 
perhaps  wouldst  eat." 

They  ate  and  drank  together.  The  Indian 
did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  his  companion. 


366          SALT   LAKE 

"Wouldst  thou  make  no  request?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest.  "I  had  a  mule  with 
me.  She  is  in  the  hands  of  those  who 
brought  me  here.  I  ask  thee  to  see  that  she 
is  cared  for,  though  she  can  be  of  use  no 
longer,  for  she  is  growing  old.  I  know  that 
the  Indians  are  good  to  animals  and  that  thou 
willst  not  find  the  request  a  foolish  one." 

"I  shall  keep  her  for  myself,"  said  Arapine, 
"and  unhappy  be  he  who  would  let  her  want 
for  anything!" 

He  added: 

"Is  that  all?" 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  else." 

"Hast  thou  no  desire  to  know  what  sort  of 
death  shall  be  thine,  for  instance?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Pere  d'Exiles.  "I  would 
like  to  suffer  as  little  as  possible." 

"I  promise  thee." 

They  continued  to  eat  in  silence.  The 
snores  of  the  old  Indian  grew  louder. 

"Drink  yet  another  glass  of  rum,"  ordered 
Arapine. 

He  emptied  his  own. 

"Now,  follow  me." 


SALT   LAKE          367 

They  went  out.  In  the  freezing  cold,  the 
sky  swarmed  with  stars. 

The  haltered  horses  nosed  each  other 
vaguely  in  the  dark.  The  ground  was  strewn 
with  the  embers  of  dying  fires. 

"I  will  inspect  my  outposts,"  explained  the 
Indian. 

He  repeated: 

"Follow  me." 

The  Jesuit  obeyed.  The  cold  air  did  him 
good. 

For  several  minutes,  without  exchanging  a 
word,  they  followed  the  river,  wide  and 
sluggish  at  its  entrance  into  the  lake. 

Arapine  stopped  at  a  willow.  He  pulled 
a  rope — a  canoe  came  out  of  the  shadow  and 
bumped  against  the  bank  with  a  muffled  shock. 

"There  is  an  outpost  on  the  other  side  of  the 
waters,"  explained  the  chief.  "The  sentry 
is  wont  to  neglect  his  duty.  I  will  see.  Canst 
thou  paddle?" 

"I  can,"  said  the  Jesuit. 

"Then  take  the  paddle." 

They  crossed  the  river,  grounded  the  canoe. 

"Be  seated  at  my  side,"  said  Arapine. 


368  SALTLAKE 

Again  Pere  d'Exiles  obeyed.  They  stayed 
there  half  an  hour,  an  hour  perhaps,  watch- 
ing the  moon  cross  the  sky. 

Once  more  Arapine  lifted  his  voice. 

"We  are  here  on  the  south  bank  of  the 
river." 

"Yes,  on  the  south  bank,  I  know,"  said  P£re 
d'Exiles. 

"If  thou  shouldst  bend  thy  steps  to  the  East, 
in  the  direction  of  Fillmore,  by  following  the 
south  bank,  it  would  never  occur  to  Indians 
to  seek  thee  there.  Besides,  thou  wouldst  be — 
too  far  .  .  ." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Jesuit  simply. 

"What  awaitest  thou?"  came  Arapine's  dry 
voice. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  escape,"  said  Pere 
d' Exiles. 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  Arapine. 

He  continued: 

"And  if  I  should  leave  thee  here,  and  re- 
turn alone  to  the  camp,  with  the  canoe?" 

"I  would  stay  here,  and  when  they  would 
ask  me  how  I  came,  I  would  tell,  for  my  re- 
ligion forbids  falsehood." 

"It  also  forbids  suicide,"  said  Arapine. 


SALT   LAKE  369 

A  cloud  hid  the  moon.  Their  faces  were  in 
darkness  for  a  moment.  When  the  moon 
emerged,  they  were  both  very  calm. 

"Let  us  return  to  camp,"  said  Arapine. 

Once  back  in  the  tent,  Arapine  spread  the 
ground  with  buffalo  skins. 

"Lie  down,"  he  said,  "and  try  to  sleep." 

"And  thou?" 

"I  leave  after  a  while,  with  some  horsemen, 
to  see  what  is  happening  on  the  road  to  the 
East.  I  do  not  return  until  noon.  Fare- 
well." 

He  left  him.  The  Jesuit  stretched  out  on 
the  skins  and  lifted  the  tent-flap  so  that  he 
could  see  the  lake,  gleaming  through  the  fir- 
trees  like  an  immense  turquoise  moon.  Choa- 
pee  snored  no  longer. 

In  the  camp,  about  four  o'clock,  there  were 
muffled  calls,  then  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs. 
It  was  Arapine  and  his  escort,  going  on  their 
reconnoitering  party  eastward. 

About  two  hours  later,  a  bird  began  to  sing 
in  the  trees,  then,  soon  after,  the  day  dawned. 


L 


EPILOGUE 

OOK,  sir,  here  are  some  more  tele- 
grams of  congratulation,"  cried 
Lieutenant  Codrinton,  General 
Rutledge's  aide-de-camp,  bursting  into  his 
chief's  office. 

"Well,  well,  my  ladl"  cried  the  general 
with  a  smile. 

"Eight,  nine,  ten  ...  fourteen,  fifteen, 
sixteen.  And  forty-one  this  morning,  that 
makes  fifty-seven.  Fifty-seven  telegrams  of 
congratulation  in  one  day  ,  sir,  and  that  won't 
be  all,  either." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Rutledge,  who  took 
genuine  pleasure  in  the  young  man's  trans- 
ports. 

"Let's  open  them  quick!  This  official  one 
first:  GENERAL  RUTLEDGE,  INDIANAPOLIS,  IN- 
DIANA. 'Was  very  glad  to  sign  your  appoint- 
ment as  Governor  Territory  of  Utah.  Extend 
personal  congratulations  as  well  as  best  wishes 
for  success  .  .  .  Oh,  sir,  who  do  you  think 

370 


SALTLAKE  371 

that's    from!     President    Chester    himself  I" 

"The  President  is  very  kind,  indeed,"  said 
Rutledge  with  emotion. 

But  Codrinton  had  already  opened  another 
dispatch. 

"PARIS,  JULY  26,  1882,"  he  read.  "My 
friends  and  I\  delighted  with  appointment 
promising  victory  progressive  ideas  and  ring- 
ing knell  reaction.'  It's  signed  GAMBETTA." 

"Gambetta,  Leon  Gambetta,"  said  Rut- 
ledge.  "The  most  prominent  politician  in 
France.  I  had  the  honour  of  knowing  him 
in  Paris  when  I  was  military  attache." 

"Another  cable  from  Paris!"  cried  the  lieu- 
tenant. 'Affectionate  congratulations,  dear 
friend.  Hope  for  great  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  again!'  Signed:  PAIVA." 

"From  Mme.  Paiva!"  cried  the  general. 
"What  a  charming  woman!  It  was  at  her 
residence  on  the  Champs-Elysees  that  I  met 
M.  Leon  Gambetta,  as  well  as  Count  Henc- 
kel  von  Donnersmarck,  whose  congratula- 
tions reached  me  this  morning.  Ah!  Paris, 
Paris,  adorable  city!" 

He  stuffed  this  last  message  into  his  port- 
folio. 


372  SALT   LAKE 

"Mrs.  Rutledge  had  better  not  see  this," 
he  said  with  a  smile.  "Woman  are  curiously 
suspicious  at  times.  Ah!  Paris,  Paris  1" 

"It's  a  beautiful  city,  isn't  it?"  asked  young 
Codrinton,  who  was  drinking  in  his  chief's 
words. 

"A  beautiful  city!  Ah!  such  a  city  .  .  . 
You  must  go  there  some  day,  too,  as  military 
attache,  my  dear  boy.  You  can  count  on  me 
to  ...  You  know  people  can  always  count 


on  me." 


"I  shan't  ever  want  to  leave  you,  sir,"  said 
Codrinton. 

"My  boy,  my  dear  boy!"  exclaimed  Rut- 
ledge. 

And  he  shook  his  aid's  hand  fervently. 

"Go  on  opening  the  telegrams,"  said  the 
general. 

'  'Am  happy  to  hear  of  appointment  which 
assures  me  most  cordial  and  efficacious  collab- 
oration.. .Remembrances  and   best  wishes. 
Signed:  JEMINI  GWINETT." 

"Ah!"  said  Rutledge.     "That's  interesting 
—he's  the  President  of  the  Mormon  Church." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  Codrinton. 

"Slightly.     He    took    part    in    Johnston's 


SALT   LAKE  373 

expedition  of  1858,  as  a  chaplain — a  fact  few 
are  aware  of — I  myself  was  a  lieutenant  in 
Johnston's  army  .  .  ." 

"Second  Dragoons,  first  platoon,"  finished 
Codrington. 

"Exactly,"  said  the  general  with  a  kind 
smile.  "In  Salt  Lake  City,  Gwinett  was  con- 
verted to  Mormonism.  Since  then,  he  has 
risen  in  the  world.  When  President  Brig- 
ham  died  six  years  ago,  covered  with  honours 
and  ripe  years,  the  Apostles  unanimously 
elected  Gwinett  to  fill  his  place.  There's  a 
clever  man  for  you!" 

"You  will  be  on  the  best  of  terms  with  him, 
then,"  said  the  lieutenant. 

"I  should  hope  so." 

He  sighed. 

"Just  the  same,  we  can't  get  our  youth  back 
thinking  about  old  times!" 

"Have  you  ever  been  back  to  Salt  Lake 
since  then,  sir?" 

"Never." 

"How  impressive  it  must  be,"  said  young 
Codrinton,  "to  re-enter  a  city  as  a  general, 
when  you  passed  through  it  twenty-five  years 
before  just  a  lieutenant!" 


374  SALT    LAKE 

"My  dear  boy,  you  will  have  that  pleasure 
some  day,"  said  Rutledge,  "but  listen  to  this 
grey  head,  it's  better  yet  to  be  young!" 

Governor  Rutledge  entered  Salt  Lake  City 
in  state,  August  eleventh,  1882,  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

All  the  civil,  religious  and  military  person- 
ages of  the  Territory  were  present  at  the  great 
banquet  given  by  the  President  of  the  Church 
at  noon.  At  President  Gwinett's  right  was 
Mrs.  Regina  Rutledge,  and  the  Governor  sat 
to  the  right  of  Mrs.  Sarah  Gwinett. 

About  three  o'clock,  after  the  toasts  which 
had  been  many  and  cordial,  General  Connor, 
commanding  the  army  post,  approached  Rut- 
ledge. 

"Remember,  my  dear  General,  you  prom- 
ised the  boys  to  come  and  have  some'  cham- 
pagne with  them  at  Camp  Douglas." 

"I  won't  forget,"  said  Rutledge. 

At  four  o'clock,  accompanied  by  General 
Connor,  young  Codrinton  and  two  officers, 
he  took  leave  of  the  President  of  the  Church, 
whom  he  was  to  see  again  at  the  banquet  he 


SALT   LAKE  375 

himself  was  giving  at  the  Government-House 
that  night. 

They  drove  to  the  camp  situated  at  an 
altitude  of  5,000  feet  in  two  carriages,  each 
drawn  by  four  mules.  As  they  climbed,  Rut- 
ledge  turned  around  to  contemplate  the  im- 
posing panorama,  where  Salt  Lake  sparkled 
in  the  sunlight. 

Up  to  that  moment,  it  had  been  a  beautiful 
day.  Suddenly,  clouds  began  to  gather  in 
the  sky.  A  storm  was  brewing. 

"Hurry,  hurry!"  shouted  General  Connor 
to  the  drivers. 

The  carriages  tore  along  the  road. 

"These  storms  are  really  cloud-bursts," 
said  Connor  to  the  governor.  "Fortunately 
here  we  are  at  the  East  Temple  Asylum.  We 
can  stop  there  until  the  tornado  is  over." 

"The  East  Temple  Asylum?"  questioned 
the  Governor. 

"It's  an  institution  for  destitute  old  people, 
a  hospital  and  asylum  combined.  The  Super- 
intendent will  be  glad  and  proud  to  .  .  ." 

"I  myself  will  be  very  glad  to  stop  and 
visit  the  institution,"  said  Rutledge.  "A  con- 


376  SALTLAKE 

scientious  democracy  ought  to  take  the  best 
of  care  of  its  poor  out-casts." 

The  wind  and  the  torrents  of  rain  drowned 
his  last  words.  The  little  party  jumped  out 
of  the  carriages  and  ran  into  the  parlour  of  the 
institution,  barely  escaping  the  downpour. 

Flushed  with  emotion,  the  superintendent 
appeared. 

His  institution  was  so  well  kept,  that  it 
deserved  the  highest  praises,  and  the  governor 
did  not  spare  any.  With  his  officers,  he 
looked  in  turn  into  wide,  airy  dormitories, 
yards,  courts,  and  the  refectory — the  inmates, 
rheumatic  old  women  and  old  men  in  their 
second  childhood,  watched  them,  dull-eyed 
and  silent. 

The  sun  had  come  out  again  and  shone 
smilingly  on  the  window-panes. 

"We  can  go  now,  sir,"  whispered  Codrin- 
ton. 

"The  kitchen,  Mr.  Governor,  you  haven't 
seen  the  kitchens!"  pleaded  the  superinten- 
dent, bursting  with  pride. 

"Let  us  see  the  kitchens  then,"  said  Rut- 
ledge  affably. 

They  entered.     A  giant  cook  stood  at  atten- 


SALTLAKE  377 

tion  in  front  of  a  copper  kettle  big  enough  to 
contain  an  ox. 

In  a  corner,  under  the  supervision  of  a 
woman  of  austere  mien,  was  a  group  of  the 
inmates,  dressed  in  coarse  brown  garments. 
They  were  peeling  vegetables. 

There  were  three  old  men  and  two  old 
women,  wretched  human  waste.  They  hardly 
lifted  their  eyes  as  the  brilliant  staff  drew  near. 

"I  would  like  to  call  your  attention,  Mr. 
Governor,"  began  the  superintendent,  without 
noticing  that  his  illustrious  guest  had  turned 
ghastly  white. 

He  had  no  time  to  finish  his  sentence. 
With  a  shrill  scream,  one  of  the  two  old 
women,  snatching  up  a  handful  of  the  rub- 
bish strewing  the  floor,  had  flung  it  into  Rut- 
ledge's  face. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


KEC'D  LD-LRU 

OCT  2019/i 

RRTOLD-IRC 

c  197? 


Form  L9-Serie8  4939 


2603 


